


A Fiddle in the Band

by azriona



Series: Fiddle 'Verse [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Music, American John, Country & Western, Country Music, Horses, M/M, WIP
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-25
Updated: 2014-10-08
Packaged: 2017-12-30 10:44:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 42,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1017668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azriona/pseuds/azriona
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson writes country western music.  Sherlock Holmes sings it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. That Lonesome Whistle

**Author's Note:**

  * For [snogandagrope](https://archiveofourown.org/users/snogandagrope/gifts).



> The nitty gritty: Snogandagrope [made me do it](http://snogandagrope.tumblr.com/post/61812950923/dog-fucking-damint-cloama). Blame her. Kizzia did a lightning quick beta on this chapter, but no Brit-pick, because so far, everyone is American. Lyrics and chapter title from “[Folsom Prison Blues](http://youtu.be/HxAa83gP9vc)”, which was recorded by the late great Johnny Cash, and if you have never heard him sing, you need to amend that yesterday. Listen to his cover of NIN’s “[Hurt](http://youtu.be/3aF9AJm0RFc)”. Best thing ever.
> 
> ~~A few notes. This is a WIP. As a rule, I don’t post WIPs. I’m breaking that rule for this story, though. Therefore I don’t have a posting schedule, I don’t know when new chapters will appear, and actually, I’m not entirely sure where this is going. (I should probably think about that some.) So this is all very highly experimental. I’m very sorry in advance if it all goes awry. But believe me when I say, I do **not** want to abandon this story. I kind of like it.~~
> 
> ~~Also, eventually, there will be Sherlock in cowboy boots. That is all.~~
> 
> Updated 10 December 2016: I do not plan to finish this story at this time, but I've included at the end of the series a synopsis of where I had intended to go, as well as a few other goodies. If an unfinished WIP doesn't appeal, I totally understand and won't mind if you hit the back button. If you're game, though, please enjoy.

Chapter One: That Lonesome Whistle

The static on the radio was oddly cheerful in the grey dawn. John Watson frowned as he played with the tuning dial, trying to land on the exact spot which would give him the music he could just hear under the fuzzy sounds of nothing. The station remained tantalizingly out of tune. 

“Dammit,” he muttered under his breath as the station slipped away again, and he moved the dial slowly, slowly, slowly, concentrating to keep his shaking fingers steady. 

Johnny Cash’s voice floated through the static as John moved the dial. 

_Well, if they freed me from this prison…_

John nearly chuckled. It was almost funny, in a way, Johnny Cash singing the Folsom Prison Blues, as if he were stuck in the radio, and John trying to get him out. His fingers slipped with another irrepressible shudder, and John cursed until he realized that by sheer luck, the shake had shoved the dial exactly the right amount to land on the station correctly. 

_Far from Folsom prison, that's where I want to stay_  
 _And I'd let that lonesome whistle blow my blues away....._

John sat back in his chair, hands raised cautiously. The station warbled a little, but remained, on the whole, clear. John tried to relax as the plaintive picking on the guitar filled the airwaves. Music – not the dead noise of static making him frantic and nervous with tension, not the heavy sounds of silence pushing him further into the ground. Just music. 

John sighed and stretched out his fingers, watched them shake in the blue of early morning. 

There were things to be doing, even at this hour, but John didn’t move from the chair for a moment. He stared hard at his hands, stared and willed and tightened the muscles in his fingers, clenching them without actually making a fist, squeezing every muscle in his hands and arms and shoulders until at last every part of him was still. 

The music faded into a commercial for the local Ford dealership, the announcer’s rapid-fire voice tooting the fantastic deals on new trucks and SUVs and hybrids. John snorted and turned away from the radio. Put on the pot for coffee (no coffeemaker here), throw some bread into the oven (toasters were for wimps), don a coat and hat to feed the dogs. He’d do a full check of the premises once he’d eaten and written his words for the day, but the dogs would start howling if breakfast didn’t accompany the sunrise. 

Four dogs, all dark brown bruisers of uncertain heritage, all perfectly friendly to John and any neighbors who happened to come by, and unfriendly to anyone else, met him at the entrance to the barn. None of them had names or ages or as far as John could tell, much of a personality except for liking food and disliking chickens. The dogs were, as always, happy to see him, and as soon as the food hit the bowls, were chowing down without another care in the world. Most of them, anyway – one, the smallest of the pack stayed by John’s side for another moment, and gave his hand a lick. 

“Go on,” said John. “Or the others’ll get your breakfast and you aren’t getting another.” 

The dog licked his hand again before trotting back to its breakfast. John watched them eat for a moment – one was already pushing its half empty bowl across the barn floor in its eagerness to get every last morsel of food – and then headed back to the house before his water boiled away. 

Music again – well, that was something, at least, he’d managed to miss the commercials. The water was boiling, too, and John could smell the toast in the oven just about to burn. He pulled it out with bare hands, dropped the hot toast on the counter, and turned to fix up his coffee, running the water through the ancient French press. Fancy enough for some; just good sense to John, since it didn’t use electricity or take up unnecessary real estate on the small kitchen counter. If a press had been good enough for his grandmother, it was good enough for him. 

John was halfway to buttering the toast when he realized he was humming along with the radio, and he frowned, not quite recognizing the music, while at the same time wondering how it was he knew it. He stopped what he was doing and listened – no words, just instrumental, a bridge of some kind in between verses, and clearly placed to show off the quick bow-work of the fiddler. John could practically hear the fingers flying smoothly over the strings, free from stiffness and shakes, the sweat dripping from some unknown brow under bright stage lighting. 

And then the fiddle stopped, and the artist began to sing. A deep voice, baritone, haunting and strange and full of longing and sorrow and hope and determination. 

_The wind comes low and straight across the Oklahoma plain_  
 _I won’t just sit and wait for the sun to turn to rain_  
 _I’ll get up on my own two feet and get out of this damn place_  
 _And leave the past behind me and try on a different face._

John froze. 

He knew this song. 

This was _his_ song, sung by a voice that might have come from his own heart, exactly as he’d written it six months ago in the deep dark of the hour before sunrise. Scratched the words on paper and set them to music on the battered piano in the attic and sent off to his agent and hadn’t heard a damn thing else since, though that might have been because John only checked the post office box about once every two weeks, and come to think of it, it’d been about a month since he’d remembered to check it last, hadn’t it? 

“Damn,” whispered John, and leaned against the counter as the man on the radio kept singing out his darkest nightmares. 

_The brightest gold will turn to brass in the harsh light of the day_  
 _The fields of wheat will turn to grass; life has always been that way_  
 _The best of times, the worst of fates are always hand in hand_  
 _You’ve got to fight against the dawn, and take it like a man._

John closed his eyes and breathed. 

It was one thing to write the words in the dark of night, when no one else was looking over his shoulder. They were quiet scritches of pencil on paper, private and unhurried and alone. Putting them to music – that came so naturally, as John repeated the words to himself over the course of the day, finding the right notes, the right stops and starts and rises and falls, that when he actually sat down at the battered old piano in the attic, it was as if he was playing songs from dusty memory instead of something he’d composed himself. 

John still didn’t know why he’d send the finished products off to Mike. He’d certainly never expected Mike to say anything but, _Fine, good, I’ll see what I can do_. Which is what Mike often said, and then nothing would come of it. 

Nothing like hearing some other man sing out his nightmare. John supposed an actual songwriter would be celebrating, hearing his song on the radio. John just felt violated. 

_Never again_ , he told himself. When he opened them, the sun had risen, and the kitchen was filled with light. 

* 

The strains of the fiddle remained with John long after he’d finished his coffee and toast. Trying to write them had proven to be a fruitless venture, and John had broken the tip of his pencil in frustration before he finally gave up and went outside to start the morning chores. The overly friendly dog was waiting for him at the base of the porch steps, and John walked by it without a word. It followed, tail wagging. 

“Breakfast get stolen?” John asked the dog when they reached the barn. “Told you to eat it and not go looking for scraps.” 

The dog sat down, watching as John fumbled with the lock in the crisp morning air. The bolt slid, finally, and John shoved the door open, throwing his body weight against the wood, as the door creaked and complained. 

The barn was warm and fuggy with the scent of horses and hay, sweat and manure. Two dozen horses, all in individual stalls, shuffled and shifted, some calling out to him in longing wickers, some perfectly content to ignore him. One, a deep brown horse that was at least five hands taller than any horse had the right to be, head-butted the stall’s door as John walked past. 

“Hold still, Remy, I’m coming back,” said John, and the horse neighed in response. 

John gathered the halters and fly masks from the closet before going into the stalls, one by one, clipping the halters on and leading the horses to stand in the center aisle. The tall brown horse was the last, and he curled his head around John as John fixed the halter. John chuckled, and patted Remy’s cheek. 

“Right, Rem. All right, boy, I’m goin’ as fast as I can.” 

Half a dozen horses were shuffling in the center aisle when John led Remy out. He unhooked their tethers and held them loosely in his hand – mostly they knew where to go, and were anxious to get there without much prompting from the likes of him. They followed as he led them into the pastures next door, and waited somewhat impatiently as he unlatched the gate, pawing at the ground and snuffling in the cool morning air. As soon as John threw the gate wide, they went through, picking up the pace until they were at a full gallop, racing across the grass and kicking their heels. 

The dozen or so cows in the far pasture lowed their own greetings; if John listened closely, he could hear the sheep on the other side. The sun was just peeking out from the otherwise heavy cloud cover; John lifted his hand up to shield his eyes, and caught sight of the figure on horseback, trotting across the field, waving hello. John waved back. 

“Watson!” shouted the woman, and John nudged the last of the horses through the gate before pulling it closed, setting the latch so they wouldn’t get out easily. “Don’t go in yet!” 

John waved his acknowledgement, and waited for the woman to finish crossing the clearing. He had to crane his neck to look up at her, but that was only because of the horse; he’d seen Mary Morstan with her feet on the ground, and she was smaller than he was. Lithe and blonde with bright eyes and a sassy demeanor. John liked her, when he didn’t want to kick her into the nearest well. “I tried calling you this morning – were you in the fields?” 

“Are you kidding? I’ve been out in the fields, to town and back, and cleaned out all three dozen stalls before breakfast,” countered John with a snort. 

“Show-off,” said the woman, and the horse pranced a bit. “There’s a gap on the northwest side. Thought you ought to know.” 

John frowned. “Not big enough for an escape, is it?” 

“Not yet. But that dapple’s looking contemplative. I can lend a hand after lunch if you’d like.” 

“Thanks, I’d appreciate that.” 

Mary nodded, and the horse continued to prance. “Good lord, Pondicherry, what’s gotten into you? Sorry, John. If I don’t run this beast five miles before breakfast, it’s like he hasn’t had exercise in a week.” 

John chuckled. “Go on, then.” 

Mary took off, a quick trot until she reached far end of the clearing, where she kicked Pondicherry into a full on gallop. John watched them go, the dust kicking up behind, until a soft bark at his feet alerted him to the dog, sitting patiently at his side. 

“No second breakfast for you,” John told the animal, and went back into the barn. Plenty to do in the day still – mucking out the stalls, refreshing the water, checking the feed, washing down the concrete. The arena needed re-sanding, there were three saddles needed repairing, and that didn’t even figure in John’s personal laundry and the fact that the toilet was in desperate need of a scrub. 

Another day. John’s fingers itched with the irrational need to _write_ , made all the more ridiculous by the fact that he’d spent twenty minutes that morning already trying to do just that, without success. 

The reason why flooded back; John had forgotten, and the memory of the fiddle, twisting and turning around notes he’d composed on a piano, curled around his head, danced in time with the push broom. 

The dog followed hopefully behind. 

* 

It was three hours before John finished mucking out the stalls. The dog followed him clear up to the front porch of the house, and when John told him to sit at the base of the stairs, he did, although he still looked hopefully at John. 

“Well,” said John, “Murray trained you well, anyway.” 

The house wasn’t much warmer than the air outside, though that might have been the lack of wind. John threw a few logs into the little black stove that served as heating, and after a moment’s contemplation – _Aw, hell, Watson, do it or you’ll wonder the rest of the day_ – went to find a phone. 

Mike answered on the second ring. “Stamford.” 

“Mike, there something you want to tell me?” demanded John. 

“John Watson!” Mike sounded more relieved than anything else. “I’ve been trying to call you for days, man! You need an answering machine.” 

“I have one.” 

“It’s not working.” 

John glanced at the answering machine. The lights didn’t blink, and the number read a solid “1”, same as it had for weeks. “Looks like it is to me.” 

“You need to listen to the radio, man – hold on, I can look up the next—“ 

“I heard it.” 

“Oh!” Now Mike was flustered, probably because John didn’t sound suitably enthused. Well, he _wasn’t_ , he wasn’t about to put on a show for Mike. “Debuted day before yesterday, and it’s making its way up the charts. Getting requests for it right and left, you should see the sales on iTunes.” 

John shivered and looked out the window. The horses were contently nuzzling at the grasses. Remy stood near the gate, watching the house. Hoping for a ride, no doubt. 

“Who was singing it? I didn’t recognize the voice.” 

“John, you have got to get out from under that rock. He’s had a few top ten hits, nothing above four or five. And he’s been playing spotlight fiddle for years – Reba and Brad, mostly, a few others. Looks about twelve years old, but he’s been on the circuit long enough. Name’s Sherlock Holmes.” 

John pulled the phone from his ear and made a face at it, as if he’d heard wrong. “What kind of sissy name is _that_ for a country music singer?” 

“Well, he refused to change it. That’s how it’s going these days in the business; everyone wants to keep their own names, ‘less there’s a good enough reason to switch. And there’s never a good enough reason, not for them. So you heard the song? What’d you think? He did a bit of rearranging with the music, added in a fiddle solo, I think there were some verses he repeated—“ 

“I didn’t hear the whole thing,” admitted John. “The fiddle solo, though. That…that was good. Which verses?” 

“Um…” John could hear Mike shuffle the papers on his desk. “The opening. Talking about the reversal from comforting dark to the bright light of day. Something about the symbolism. I don’t know, he goes on a while once you get him started.” 

“Uh-huh.” The horses were off at a gallop again, racing in circles. Except for Remy, still standing by the gate. “Mike, I’ve got to go. Something’s spooked the horses.” 

“Wait – you got any more songs for me? He wants ‘em. Wants first pick of ‘em.” 

“Shoot, Mike, I sent you half a dozen last month,” said John irritably. “Show him those.” 

“I did. He didn’t read ‘em a quarter through before he threw them out the window, called them ‘rubbish’ and asked for the good stuff.” 

“ _Rubbish_?” 

“Yeah, didn’t I tell you? British. Urban’s one thing, they’ve got cowboys in Australia, or something like. British, though…” 

John snorted. “Does he wear a top hat or a cowboy hat on stage?” 

“Neither.” 

“Oh, _that_ kind of country.” 

“Don’t knock it, there’s a royalty check from _that_ kind of country heading your way. And half your horses are dressage, anyway.” 

“Not my horses,” said John, as the horses in question galloped around the paddock again. “Speaking of.” 

“Fine, fine. Get your phone fixed.” 

“Sure.” 

John hung up the phone, checked that the fire in the little black stove wasn’t anything to worry about, and sat down on the bench by the door to pull on his boots. 

A royalty check. John, briefly, wondered what it’d look like. Big enough for new jeans and new boots, maybe. Or long underwear. He’d give in on the jeans if he could have a pair of longjohns to go underneath – really there wasn’t anything wrong with the jeans, no holes to speak of, just that they were worn thin and soft and fuzzy from years of work. The boots were all right too, he supposed: faded tan rubbed shiny from years of work. Bit of mud caked to the heels. 

The coat, though – nothing wrong with the coat. Brushed leather with sheep’s wool inside, fuzzy and soft and heavy and warm. John pulled it on and did up the snaps clear to his chin, and pulled on the wide-brimmed cowboy hat tightly as he stepped outside. 

The dog waited for him, sitting on the top step. 

“I don’t know what kind of arrangement you had with Murray,” John told the dog, “but you’re not coming in while I’m here.” 

The dog’s tail thumped against the porch. 

“Go on,” said John. “I’ve got work to do.” 

The dog followed John down the steps and toward the paddock, where it waited patiently as John pulled Remy out of the field and led him back to the barn to saddle him up. The dog watched from a safe distance, and when John finally got up on Remy’s back to set off at a gallop across the field, the dog followed along, running gleefully through the grass, tongue lolling out of the side of its mouth. Happy.


	2. The Winter Wind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I’d been thinking ahead, I would have posted this chapter for the CMA awards Wednesday night. I can’t claim I didn’t know about them, the country radio stations here have been advertising like their lives depended on it. (Or at least their funding.) 
> 
> Please note that I’ve made a small change to Chapter One – mostly extending Sherlock’s musical career to include playing fiddle on background/solo tracks for other artists, and having a couple of Top Ten hits of his own. He’s not a huge star yet, but it’s rising and it’s a sign of John’s distance from society that he doesn’t know his name. 
> 
> Chapter title and the song Mary sings is Keith Urban’s [‘Til Summer Comes Around](http://youtu.be/kh0ESB30eJA). The song she uses to make fun of John is Alabama’s [Mountain Music](http://youtu.be/1dzdt1_LZlw?t=40s) (the video is from their performance at the 1982 CMA show – it’s watchable only because the hair is hysterical). As always, the song John writes was written by me. I’ll try not to do that too often.

** Chapter Two: The Winter Wind **

The gap in the fence on the northwest side of the pasture wasn’t so much a gap as it was the supporting post completely disintegrating, which meant the planks on either side had fallen to the ground. Seeing it, John was surprised half the horses hadn’t gone wandering. Or maybe they had, and had already determined he was the best source of food for a few miles. 

Remy, who was normally at least a little curious about oddities in his living areas, didn’t seem all that interested in the gap – John wondered how long it’d been there. He ought to have been riding the perimeter every day, or at least every other, to check the fence, but he hadn’t been able to do it in a week. Irresponsible, and John swore under his breath – it was his word that he could take care of the horses, and his word was the only good thing left in him. John didn’t want to let Murray down – but there was something more, too. John didn’t want to lose the only thing left in him that he recognized. 

The dog barked, and John tensed. _Someone’s coming_ , he thought, and scanned the horizon. But he didn’t see anyone, and when the dog barked again, John turned around to see it barking at Remy, forepaws flat on the ground, tail wagging excitedly. Playtime, apparently, and John frowned and turned back to the fence. Work to be done, and John could see the dark clouds on the horizon. 

John ran his hands down the splintered post. The wood was still smooth on the exterior, worn by wind and rain and snow, but the exposed insides were ragged and sharp. It was cracked clear off the base, and the wood showed signs of rot; who knew how long it’d been ready to fall over at the slightest touch. Even if he tried to fix it, it wouldn’t last the winter, and he’d just need to replace it later. Better to do it now. There were extra slats in the upper eaves in the barn; he’d have to check if there were posts, too. And they’d need mallets and possibly a crowbar to get the old post out of the ground…he’d have to go back, and sure there’d be half a dozen things that would pop up while he was at the barn. Things always popped up. John patted his pockets, found the notebook and pencil he kept on him for ideas, and quickly scratched out a note to Mary. He wedged it into the splinters of the post, and then went back to Remy, who watched placidly as the dog tried to engage him in play. John couldn’t decide if Remy looked amused or annoyed. With horses, it was sometimes hard to tell. 

“Well, come on,” he said, irritably, to the dog, who raced ahead of Remy, and then doubled back, wondering why Remy wasn’t willing to play. “You know a horse goes faster than you, right?” John asked the dog, but the dog just barked happily back, not caring a whit. John snorted, and didn’t give in. 

He saw the truck parked outside the stables before he recognized it. He hesitated, pulling Remy back in an almost unconscious motion, and Remy huffed a protest, rippled the muscles under his skin. Thinking of water and warm oats and other lovely things, no doubt, not caring that John was breathing heavily on his back. The dog, who had managed to keep up with them only because John hadn’t set Remy to a full gallop, circled happily, ears flat against its head, tongue out the side of its mouth. 

John wasn’t expecting visitors. Middle of the morning, middle of the week – none of the horse’s owners would be coming by for a ride or a conversation, all busy with whatever work kept them. None of the teenagers who seemed to hang around the stables like horseflies in the summer would be looking for any old reason to stay underfoot; they’d all be in school. Remy shifted, clearly wanting to go on, not quite understanding the reticence of his rider, and John struggled to calm his breathing and keep balance. The dog barked, a little less forgiving than the horse. 

There was someone in the barn, and where once John might have welcomed a visitor, now he ran the truck through his own mental database, trying to remember its owner. Pale blue pick-up, shiny but not actually new, covered bed, writing on the side. The vet. 

John let out the breath he didn’t realize he held, and clicked at Remy. “Let’s go,” he said, and squeezed his shaking hand around the reins, pressing it to Remy’s neck. He reached the barn just as Molly was coming out, holding a lead in her hands. 

“H’llo, Molly,” said John, and Molly looked up, shading her eyes. “Everything all right?” 

“The Harrisons wanted me to check Calufrax’s eyes again,” explained Molly. “Is he in the west paddock?” 

“As requested. Booker and Thunderbolt are with him, they’ll keep him out of trouble.” 

“He seem especially skittish to you?” 

“Only when I’m late bringing his supper. But they’re right, his eyes are weeping more heavily these days. He can’t stand for me to go near ‘em.” 

Molly sighed. “Damn. All right. I might need help, if he’s resisting.” 

“You won’t have trouble bringing him in; he likes pretty ladies more than he likes me,” said John dryly, and Molly blushed. 

“I’ll just go round and get him, then.” 

“Holler if you need me,” said John, and tied Remy loosely to one of the hitching posts just outside the barn, near a trough of water. “Won’t be a moment, Rem.” 

Wooden slats, piles of them, chicken wire and extra corrugated sheeting for the roof; empty burlap sacks and trunks that might have been left over from the previous century. Old saddles with leather so worn it was shiny, and a pile of rope that looked to be tied in knots. Halters so twisted together John didn’t think anyone had a hope of untangling them. But no posts, not anywhere John could see, and he swore. Who knew how long the post had been down, and he couldn’t let it go much longer, or he really would have horses wandering the plains, which never led to any good. He was lucky an owner hadn’t come by to find their horse missing already. 

“John!” 

Molly, downstairs. John sighed and kicked at a stray stirrup, sending it skittering across the floor. “Just coming,” he called back, and made his way down the ladder, careful to loop his arm around the ladder instead of trusting his fingers, which were already aching with cold. And it wasn’t even all that cold yet – barely October. He didn’t care to think about how much colder it’d get by January. 

Molly had hooked Calufrax to the standing leads in the center of the aisle, and he was waiting patiently, head down, while she rummaged in her medical kit. He was still wearing his fly mask – less about the flies in the cold weather, more to keep his eyes clean from debris. John went up to the horse, shushing and clucking as he grew nearer, and patted his nose gently. 

“Hey, Frax,” he said softly, and Calufrax sniffed against his hands, looking for a treat. “Nope, sorry, no carrots today. Maybe when Doc Molly’s done with you, if she says it’s okay.” 

“Exactly what the doctor ordered,” said Molly, and she turned around. “I need to take a look at those eyes and then wash them out. It won’t hurt him, but he doesn’t like me doing it.” 

“What do you need me to do?” 

“Hold his head and distract him. Don’t worry about keeping his head still, you won’t be able to do it. You know…just…keep talking to him.” 

“Bedside manner,” said John, and helped remove Calufrax’s mask. 

The eyes were weeping again, leaving a dark wet trail down the side of the horse’s head. Crust had formed around the eye itself, dark yellow, gluing the horse’s long lashes into a spiderweb over his dark eyes. John was impressed that Calufrax could see at all, with that mess. 

“Aw, Frax, you should have said something,” he scolded the horse. “Well, you probably did, I was distracted this morning. Sorry, boy.” 

Calufrax huffed into John’s hand, and John ran his fingers down his forehead, across his cheek, patting and rubbing alternately while he wound his left hand into the horse’s halter. Calufrax kept looking between John and Molly. 

“All right, Frax,” said Molly, soothingly, “here we go.” 

Calufrax didn’t buck or fight, so much as shy away from Molly, who was humming a song under her breath, but John couldn’t make it out for concentrating on Frax. John tried to keep him steady, shushing and clicking and making every noise he’d ever heard anyone make around a horse, one hand holding tight to the halter in an attempt to keep Calufrax’s head down, where Molly had some hope of reaching his eyes. 

Calufrax shuddered and whimpered and finally stilled, pressing against John as if looking for warmth and comfort. John rubbed the spot he knew Frax liked best, and saw his reflection in Frax’s dark brown eye, lashes breaking up the pattern of the barn. His left hand was warm next to Frax, and the tremor had abated. For a moment, John thought Calufrax was amused, wondering which of them was in worse shape. 

It was as Molly finished wiping all the crud and wet away that John finally heard the song Molly was singing. 

_The brightest gold will turn to brass in the harsh light of the day_  
 _The fields of wheat will turn to grass; life has always been that way_

The words sounded sweet and pure when sung by Molly’s soprano. Hopeful and loving, almost a lullaby, and John tried to shut out the words, but they rose from his own memory, unbidden, keeping time as Molly continued to soothe Calufrax with them. 

“What the hell are you singing, Moll?” asked John finally, unable to keep the annoyance out of his voice. 

“Song they’ve been playing on the radio a lot,” said Molly. “I can’t get it out of my head.” 

“Little dark for a lullaby, don’t you think?” 

“Dark?” Molly frowned. 

“The whole song is about how reality is never as good as what you’ve been promised when you were a kid. You grow up thinking adulthood is going to be this fantastic ride where everything you want is there for the taking, and instead—” John snorted, not quite sure how to end the statement. And anyway, hadn’t he made it clearer in the context of the song? 

“Are we talking about the same song? Because that’s not what I heard at all.” 

What the hell had Sherlock Holmes done to his song, if Molly didn’t understand? 

“Maybe not,” muttered John, and leaned his forehead against Calufrax. The horse let out a soft whinny, and tried to turn his head to cradle John. “Hey, now, don’t smother me. Doc Molly’s not done with you yet.” 

“Maybe it’s the video,” said Molly. “The way he sings it – it’s like he’s singing it straight to you, singing it _about_ you. I don’t know how he does it, it’s the same for every person I’ve talked to who’s seen it.” 

“Video?” 

Molly smiled. “Video, John, you know, when there’s a camera and someone records a picture as well as the sound? They play it on this newfangled thing called a television.” 

“I know what television is, thank you.” John’s right arm was beginning to ache, and there – the left hand was beginning to tremble again. Dammit. 

“Sometimes I wonder what century you’re from, John Watson,” said Molly. “There, all done, Calufrax, you did such a good job. A whole bushel of carrots’ worth, I think. John, is there an extra hood somewhere? We ought to disinfect the old one before we replace it.” 

“In the storage closet,” said John. He had to work to unwind his fingers from Calufrax’s halter. “He gonna be all right?” 

“Oh, sure, it’s only conjunctivitis.” 

“Pink eye.” 

“Same as with humans, really. You’ll need to wash his eyes out and put in more meds tonight, and twice tomorrow too.” Molly closed her case and turned around. She ran her hand down Calufrax’s neck soothingly. “You’ll be just fine, Frax, in a day or two.” 

“I’ll take him back out,” said John, unhooking the lead lines. 

“No, it’s fine – I need to run Toby today and I might as well do it while I’m here. North paddock?” 

“Yup. I have to run into town for a couple of hours, can you run Remy back out to the paddock when you get Toby?” 

“Of course. Thanks for helping me with Frax – it would have taken twice as long if I’d had to do it myself.” 

“That’s why I’m here,” said John in an attempt to sound cheerful. Instead, it only sounded forced. 

“No, but you’re good with them, you know – the horses, I mean. They like you. Even Bastian, and he doesn’t like anyone.” 

“Bastian’s just ornery, that’s all,” said John dismissively. “Comes of being beaten a few too many times.” 

“I agree, but see, that’s exactly it. The last manager, he didn’t care that Bastian was mistreated, he just wanted to write him off as a lost cause. You, though, you’re working with him and trying to rehabilitate him and that’s more than most would do.” 

John’s fingers twitched against his jeans. He couldn’t look Molly in the eye, and pulled out his notebook instead. A list, he’d make a list, show her he was too busy for platitudes or whatever it was she was trying to do. _New post_ , he wrote down. _Carrots_. “Everyone deserves a second chance, that’s all,” he said, and wrote down _fly mask for Frax?_

“Not everyone sees it that way. Not when it comes to cases like Bastian’s.” 

“Bastian’s not a case, he’s a fact of life,” snapped John suddenly, and Molly’s eyes widened. 

“I—“ 

John sighed. Too close, much too close. “Shoot, I’m just doing what any person worth their salt would have done.” 

“Montague would have just stood there with Frax, not tried to comfort him or anything.” 

“Well, then, Montague was an asshole,” said John. “I need to get going if I’m going to be back to fix that post before dark.” 

Molly shifted. “I just wanted to say thank you,” she said, a bit meeker now. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.” 

“I’m not,” said John. It wasn’t Molly’s fault if she touched a nerve. 

“Will you…you won’t be long in town, will you?” 

“Don’t expect to be.” 

Molly hesitated. “I could…I brought lunch with me. I could wait to eat it until you get back?” 

“I’ll probably try to get something in town,” said John absently. 

“Right,” said Molly. “Best…best be going then.” 

Molly fled. 

It was only after the stables were empty that John realized she’d been trying to ask him to eat lunch with her. A date, in a way. 

John groaned, and hit his head on the nearest wooden post. It hurt, which was somehow better than remembering the way Molly had tried to cover her clearly crestfallen expression with a false sense of direction. 

The really ridiculous part was that even had John realized what she was asking – he still would have said no. He just wouldn’t have been such an utter moron about it. 

The dog, who’d been watching the entire exchange from the doorway, barked at him. 

“Oh, don’t you start,” said John, and banged his head once more for good measure before heading out to the truck and going into town. 

* 

The song was playing on the radio on the drive into town. John listened to half of it, and turned the radio off before he’d have to admit that Molly was right. 

* 

Mary was already in the field by the time John returned to the broken fence post. At least, he assumed Mary was there – he could see Pondicherry grazing under one of the trees, but no sign of her blonde head nearby. John stood up on Remy’s stirrups, and scanned the ground – but Pondicherry wouldn’t have been half as calm if she’d been hurt. 

“Easy, Remy,” said John absently, and then Mary appeared, sitting up in the tall grass like a Jack-in-the-box. 

“You’re late,” she accused, getting up to her feet, and John settled back down on the saddle. 

“I had to go into town for a new post,” explained John. He pulled Remy to a halt and got back down on the ground before starting to untie the ropes on the saddle’s horn. Remy nickered a hello to Pondicherry, who eyed the slats of wood behind him warily. 

“So I see. You could have called and let me know.” 

“I tried, you weren’t at home.” 

Mary rolled her eyes and pulled her cell phone from her jeans pocket. “Welcome to the 21st century, John Watson.” 

John unwound the ropes from the new post. “Give me one good reason why being in constant touch with the world is a good idea.” 

“Well, for one thing, I wouldn’t have been waiting for you for the last forty-five minutes.” 

John winced. 

“Well, five,” admitted Mary. “I spent the first forty getting the old post out. Had to use up Pondi’s excess energy somehow.” 

“No wonder he’s tired,” said John, and hefted the new post to the gaping hole in the ground. “Can you hold it steady?” 

“You bet,” said Mary, and waited until John had already given the post a few blows with the mallet before talking again. “Saw Doc Hooper circling your property this morning.” 

“ _Ooof_ ,” grunted John as the mallet swung and hit the post. He could feel the vibrations run down his bones and into his shoulder; the original deep tissue massage, he thought, as he swung his arms around for another blow. 

“Thought she was looking pretty today,” added Mary. 

“Why, Mary,” said John. “Learn something new about you every day.” 

Mary leaned over and swatted his leg. “For _you_ , you ninny.” 

“She was checking on Calufrax’s eyes, not making eyes at me.” 

“She wasn’t prettying herself up for Frax, Watson. And she sure wasn’t going to do it for me.” 

John slammed the mallet onto the post again. “See it how you want to.” 

Mary’s eyes widened. “Have I hit a nerve?” 

“No.” 

“Suit yourself.” 

Mary went quiet and John kept pounding the post into the ground. It was quick work – the ground was hard, but the hole was already fairly deep, it was only a matter of making sure the slightly longer post was even with the existing ones. By the time John had finished, however, he’d broken into a thin sweat. It was too cold to strip his shirt off – and Mary would have made a comment, but he still shed his coat to cool down a little. 

Mary still let out a wolf whistle when he took off the coat though. He threw it at her, and she caught it with a laugh. 

“That should do it,” said John, breathing heavily, and he spun his arms in circles to keep the muscles loose. His shoulder ached, and his fingers tingled. 

“All right?” 

“Yeah, need a minute, that’s all,” said John. “I can handle the slats myself, if you want to go on home.” 

“It’s no trouble.” Mary kicked the post a few times. “You really knocked this into the ground, didn’t you? You’re stronger than you look.” 

John snorted. Wasn’t that the truth. 

“Maybe Molly’s on to something,” mused Mary. 

“Help me with the slats if you’re going to stay,” said John, and Mary dropped his coat over one of the other posts and helped arranged the slats back into place. 

And then she started to hum. 

His song. 

John gritted his teeth, thought about asking her to stop, and didn’t. Mary was far more perceptive than Molly, who wasn’t exactly a slouch when it came to interpreting other people. She’d figured out it hit a nerve earlier, she just hadn’t questioned it. Mary would question. Mary would want to know about the nerve. And knowing Mary, she’d figure it out. 

The last thing John wanted was for Mary to know. 

“At least sing something good if you’re going to sing,” said John, trying to sound jovial. He didn’t think he succeeded. “Can’t stand that newfangled not-country on the radio these days.” 

“Philistine.” 

“Is that what they’re calling it?” 

“That’s what I’m calling _you_.” Mary grinned at him. “Grandpa.” 

“Grandpa?” 

Mary began to sing. “ _Oh play me some mountain music, like grandma and grandpa used to play_.” 

John rolled his eyes and reached for another slat. 

He was about to join in on the next verse when Mary switched songs, singing under her breath where he couldn’t quite make out the lyrics, or else it was effort to lift the slats that made her skip a few of the words. Not heavy – not for a girl who’d managed to remove the rotten old post on her own – but long and cumbersome. 

_But I close my eyes and one more time_  
 _We're spinning around and you're holding on tightly_

Love song. That’s all country music ever was: lost love, unrequited love, new love, old love. And of all people in the world, John Watson had no business writing it. 

_The words came out, I kissed your mouth_  
 _No Fourth of July has ever burned so brightly_

Mary struggled with the last slat of wood, but didn’t back down from it, didn’t ask for a moment to catch her breath. She just stopped singing for a moment as she struggled to hold the weight steady while John shifted into a better position. If they’d been a country song, the two of them right then, he’d be thinking about the sunlight in her hair. Or comparing her to the rock that steadied him, the oak tree that gave him strength. 

Except they weren’t. John looked at Mary, and all he saw was…Mary. 

The slat slid into place, and Mary let out a relieved sigh. She stepped away and wriggled her fingers appreciatively. 

“All right, Grandpa,” said Mary cheerfully, a bit out of breath from exertion. John pulled the water bottles out of Remy’s saddlebags and tossed Mary one. “Thanks. I think it’s good, don’t you?” 

“The music, yes. The fence, it’ll do.” 

“You just don’t like anything recorded after 1985.” 

“I don’t like anything recorded by someone who doesn’t wear a cowboy hat.” 

“Johnny Cash played with Elvis,” said Mary smugly, and John glared at her. “The last musician I idolized wore a hat. You know what happened when he took it off? He was bald and called himself Chris Gaines. If you can’t be country without the hat, you weren’t country in the first place anyway.” 

John rolled his eyes and drank down half the bottle of water. He didn’t want to give Mary the satisfaction of agreeing with her. 

“If you’re done with me,” said Mary, and John tipped his hat for an answer. “I’ll be off. Take care where you leave your hat, cowboy.” 

“That’s Grandpa cowboy to you,” countered John, and Mary’s laughed sailed back on the wind as she galloped away, the dust rising in a cloud behind her. 

John watched until all he could see was the dust. 

The words came unbidden, rising in his mind so complete, he wasn’t sure he hadn’t heard them somewhere before. 

_Shouldn’t I, shouldn’t I, shouldn’t I_  
 _Shouldn’t I love you?_

“Damn,” he said softly, and sat down on the grass near Remy. The notebook and pencil fit snugly into his hands, and he started to scratch out the words as they kept coming. 

_I’ve been bleeding in the dark and the dead of night_  
 _I’ve been praying for a miracle when the time was right_  
 _I’ve been looking for an angel who could light my way_  
 _You’re everything I hoped to find, but I look at you and say..._

_Couldn’t I, couldn’t I, couldn’t I_   
_Couldn’t I love you?_   
_Shouldn’t I, shouldn’t I, shouldn’t I_   
_Shouldn’t I love you?_   
_Loving you would be so right_   
_So why can’t, why can’t, why can’t_   
_Why can’t I love you?_   
_You would be so good for me._


	3. The Gambler

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, I must offer belated thanks to estalita_11 for her advice regarding horses in Chapter Two. My A/N was so lengthy that I thought it was in there, I only now realized it was not, and I apologize for the omission. (This shall teach me to stay away from lengthy A/Ns.)
> 
> Chapter Title is a reference to Kenny Rogers’ [The Gambler](http://youtu.be/Jj4nJ1YEAp4). I don’t quote the lyrics, because frankly I think we all know them, but I’d like to think you’ll all recognize it in the chapter that follows, anyway.

“It’s a forty-day tour, twenty-two cities, twenty-four shows. Starts off in Phoenix and ends up in Mobile; Tricia Yearwood is headlining, so there’s going to be a good draw of folks who’d like as not end up buying the album. And she wants you to play fiddle with her for a few sets. May through the end of July, with breaks for the CMA Festival and Fourth of July. No-one’s signed you for the Fourth yet but there’s still time…Sherlock, are you listening t’me?” 

“There is a certain irony in signing a British musician to play at a festival celebrating independence from the United Kingdom,” said Sherlock Holmes, stretched out on the threadbare and stained sofa in the hideous little green room. He reached up to peel another strip of paint from the concrete wall and examined the dull shade of orange. “Who paints a green room _orange_?” 

“Pay attention,” said the man across the room. His Southern accent was exaggerated, partially from how he’d been raised to talk, partially out of sheer defiance to how everyone around him spoke. Watching people react to it was one of Sherlock’s tests. Those who were soothed and amused weren’t worth the trouble. Those who were set on edge, however…. “I’m trying to have a conversation about your career.” 

“I don’t see why I need to be involved.” 

“It’s _your career_.” 

“You want to send me on a tour; you assume I will protest and say that I do not tour. You are correct. We will argue and you will storm out of the room and tomorrow you will return and we’ll not discuss it again and this will continue for a week until you finally threaten me with invalidating my visa to remain in this blasted country, in which case I will sulkily sign whatever papers you put before me. As games of chance go, you’re playing a rather dangerous one, but one could argue that signing me to a contract at all is rather chancy, so perhaps you just like the thrill of it. You are, however, more confident of your success this time.” 

“You’ve refused three tours already this summer; why would you sign this one?” 

“Because this time, once I’ve signed the touring contract, you intend to give me the folder of songs you’ve got in your briefcase. Bribery is the lowest form of coercion, Turner.” 

“There ain’t no songs in my briefcase, Sherlock. And no one said they were for you, anyhow.” 

“Of course they are. You normally leave the case on the floor by your chair, and today it’s been sitting on the table, never out of your sight for more than a second or two. Clearly there is something important in the case. It’s been well over three months since you’ve brought me anything from the lonely cowherd in Oklahoma, and considering you’ve just gone rather stiff, and you glanced yet again at your briefcase, I’m going to assume the sheath of songs in your briefcase is from him, and therefore, for me. I’m bored. A tour will hardly improve matters.” 

Ned Turner burst into laughter, slapping his knee and doubling over. Sherlock remained passive on the sofa, and looked at him out of the corner of his eye disdainfully. 

“Shee-yout, Sherlock. I should sign you up for the circus, not the touring circuit. I’d think a tour would be exactly what you needed. New places, new faces, all beggin’ for you to dissect ‘em.” 

Sherlock snorted. “Dull.” 

“Yearwood has a good show. Lots of pretty girls looking up adoringly, if that’s your thing. Plenty of action.” 

Sherlock pursed his lips and stared at the ceiling. 

Turner sighed heavily and began to get to his feet. “Fine, have it your way. Hudson ain’t gonna be pleased, he reckoned you were a sure thing—” 

Sherlock closed his eyes and his entire body tensed. When his eyes sprang back open, the entire room seemed a little bit brighter, less in focus. 

“Who?” 

“Archibald Hudson. Tour manager, he’s the one what rung me up a few days ago askin’ for you. Said he reckoned you were a big enough name to tour with the big boys. Well, girls in this case. But I can tell him—” 

“Give me the blasted touring contracts so I can sign them and you can give me the sheet music, please.” 

Ned Turner’s mouth dropped open in shock before he snapped it right back up and continued as if he’d actually expected Sherlock to sign all along. “Right you are,” said Turner, and opened the briefcase with a snap. “What changed your mind? So’s I can use it next time, see.” 

Sherlock didn’t answer. The thick stack of papers fell on the coffee table with a slap; Sherlock swung his legs off the sofa and sat up. He picked them up and scanned through them quickly. “There’s a stop in Tulsa.” 

“Yep. Also Austin and Dallas and Albuquerque.” 

Sherlock set the papers down on the table and took the pen Turner handed him. He scrawled his name at the bottom of the page and lobbed the pen back to Turner as he lay back on the sofa. Turner tried to grab the pen, missed, and twisted in his chair to retrieve it from the floor. It only took a moment; it was long enough. By the time Turner had straightened and turned around, Sherlock was already back on the sofa, thumbing through the sheet music. 

“Sherlock, were you in my briefcase?” 

“Why? Something in there you don’t want me to see?” Sherlock frowned at the song sheets. “This one’s rubbish.” 

“No one’s forcing you to sing it,” said Turner reasonably, and he closed the briefcase with a click. “The band is back in five.” 

“Mmm,” said Sherlock, and turned the pages to the next song. 

Turner watched him for a moment. “You aren’t even excited, are you? Starting your first big tour, and you can’t even crack a smile? What would that friend of yours – Victor, that right? What would he say, if he were here?” 

Sherlock didn’t look up from the pages, but his eyes stopped scanning the words. “Something along the lines of, ‘Oh good, I’m not dead’, I suspect.” 

Turner shook his head as he picked up his case. “You’re a cold fish, Sherlock Holmes. Lucky for you this tour don’t see your true colors showing a mile away.” 

Sherlock tracked Turner out of the room, and just as the door closed, spoke. “Yes,” he said quietly, but not so quietly that Turner wouldn’t have heard if he’d been listening, “I quite agree.” 

* 

The tour would be intolerable, but the waiting would be worse, particularly since there was little chance of seeing Archibald Hudson in between the then and now. Sherlock could only bide his time and wait. 

The sheath of songs from the Oklahoma cowherd was largely terrible. One or two were passable, and Sherlock worked on them in the dark hours. Arranged on a piano where the higher registers were somewhat out of tune and therefore little used, written in pencil then recopied in blue ink. Coffee, not tea. Strawberry jam, but not often. No experience with other instruments, perhaps a fleeting affair with a clarinet, but not enough to write accompanying music, and Sherlock spent the better part of his time adding to the songs, deepening the melodies and composing the harmonies. 

The music didn’t matter, so much as the challenge of taking a single sheet and turning it into a full-fledged composition, start to finish, a story in three minutes or less. He wrapped himself in the notes, tapped the beat with his feet and closed his eyes as he drew his bow across the violin – _fiddle_ , in the moments when he played for others, but when it was himself, the music changed, lost the twang of the country and gained the sweet, smooth notes of a concerto. 

Playing alone was dangerous; better to play with company. It reminded of Sherlock who he was now. When he was alone, playing Wagner or Mozart or Handel, too much of the man he used to be would creep in, the slow sweet notes clinging to the strings, the soft sweet scent of cocaine on his fingers, the languid flow of his blood in his veins, voices and noises drawn out into a blessedly foggy lullaby. Everything in the world stretched out but still thick and pliable. Delicious. 

Too dangerous, those nights when he played alone. He lost himself in the music, played and pretended that he was who he was, not who he pretended to be. 

Sherlock couldn’t afford to forget. And so he worked on the few songs that showed promise, composed the music for the bass guitar and the steel guitar, the drums and the banjo. He added harmony to the piano score, created playful interludes where the instruments could rise together and fall apart again, and only when that was nearly complete did he turn to the blanks he’d left for the fiddle, take up his instrument and start to compose again. The music had been swirling in his head already, the notes changing shape and growing stronger; now it was time to play it out and see how it sounded in the cold light of day. 

Sherlock closed his eyes, set the violin under his chin. For a moment, he stood still in the cold sunlight streaming in through the windows. 

And then his arm began to move, his fingers danced across the strings. He waved and twisted, growing faster with repetition, as what might have been slow and methodical turned into a twirling speed of sound. He played twice through, changing notes slightly as he went, and only on the third iteration did he stop playing to scribble the notes down on the paper, rapid-fire, before returning to play the next bar. Back and forth, pencil to bow and back again, bobbing up and down and never still for more than it took to draw a note from the strings. 

Composing the score for the other instruments could take several days. Composing for the fiddle was a matter of hours, and by nightfall, it was complete. 

Sherlock played it one more time, start to finish, making tiny minute changes, before turning the pages over on the music stand. Finished. 

And then he played it again, slowly now, no longer a fiddle but a violin, the music drawing out in time and in the moonlight that now shone through the windows, as he played himself through the dangerous night. 

* 

Three days, he’d spent composing the first song. Another two, composing the second. It was child’s play, really – the cowherd might have been sleeping as he’d written it, or maybe had just eaten an entire tub of ice cream. It was saccharine sweet, rather disgustingly so, but it was better than nothing, particularly since the December weather had turned, and the snow was blowing from all directions. 

London did not have such snow. Sherlock glared at the storm outside the window; he was trapped in the little furnished flat – no, _apartment_ , here in the States – that Turner had rented for him in Nashville. Tan wall-to-wall carpeting, linoleum flooring in the bath and kitchenette. Off-white walls accented with fancy light fixtures and cheap light bulbs, colorful mass-market nonsense prints on the walls. And, because it was Nashville and the apartment complex knew their market, an extremely fancy stereo in one corner, and soundproof walls, as well as plenty of space by the window for setting up music stands and whatever instrument the occupant wanted. 

It was boring and plain and half the time, Sherlock thought he was back in the rehab facility, and he’d wake up wanting to scream. 

The storm had been raging nearly as long as Sherlock had been working on the third song that he’d deemed nearly worth his time. A ridiculous little story-song that looked better than it sounded. The lines didn’t scan, the rhymes didn’t match, nothing Sherlock tried with the music worked, and when the phone rang at the height of his frustration, Sherlock didn’t even bother to answer politely. 

“I need his telephone number,” he barked into the phone before saying anything else. 

There was a pause. “Sherlock?” asked Turner, clearly confused. 

“Yes, of course it’s me, Turner, who else would be answering _my_ phone?” snapped Sherlock. 

“How did you know it was me? You don’t have Caller ID.” 

“I don’t _need_ Caller ID; who else is going to call me here? His _number_ , Turner, I want it, I need it, _get it for me_.” 

“Whose number?” 

“The _cowherd’s_ number, Turner. He’s written the wrong music for this song, and I want to find out if he’s completely insane or just mildly depressed.” 

“I can find out but it could take a few days.” 

“Do it,” snapped Sherlock, and slammed the phone back down. 

The phone began to ring again almost immediately. Turner, of course, but not with the phone number, because he couldn’t possibly have gotten it that quickly. Sherlock picked up the receiver and dropped it back down on the hook, where it clanged noisily. He grabbed his coat and scarf and swirled out of the apartment before the phone had a chance to ring again. There was a cigarette machine in the lobby of the complex, and a small lee where the wind wouldn’t put out the dozen or so cigarettes it would take for Turner to find the cowherd’s phone number. 

Sherlock waited out the interminable elevator ride to the lobby, his foot tapping an uneven beat, and then bought his cigarettes with steady hands. There was no one around – mid-morning, people would be working, of course, doing their everyday jobs with everyday efficiency and everyday habits. Sherlock slipped into the lee just outside the loading dock doors, and pulled out his lighter and the pack of cigarettes, tapping them twice against his hip before pulling out a thin stick. 

The snow was particularly heavy for Nashville, enough that people were taking precautionary measures, but not so much that Sherlock was willing to put much credence in it still being on the ground in two days. Barely enough to _call_ it a snowstorm; anyone who knew better wouldn’t have been calling for school closures (school buses full of children on the roads at 10am), or for shoppers to buy extra milk and toilet paper (woman on the pavement struggling with large packages of both). In London, they would have glanced out the windows, shrugged, and kept on doing whatever needed to be done. 

_London_. Sherlock thought longingly, briefly, of comfortable, crowded city streets, thick with car exhaust and annoying tourists, and looked at the comparatively empty sidewalks of Nashville with its relatively clean air, and felt sick. 

Or maybe that was the cigarette, smoked to a pinprick, and Sherlock dropped what remained on the ground and crushed it under his shoe. 

The flakes fell in flurries around him, mocking and dancing just out of reach. The cigarette hadn’t been enough to calm his mind, not in the slightest, but perhaps it’d taken enough time… 

Sherlock went back to his apartment. The answerphone blinked at him, and Sherlock stabbed at the play button. 

“Sherlock, it’s Ned Turner. Pick up the phone, I know you’re there. I have a phone number and an address for John Watson. This ain’t usually how it works, you’re supposed to go through me and his agent, not contact him directly. Are you there? Maybe not. Well, here’s the number.” 

Sherlock memorized the number instantly and picked up the phone before Turner had even stopped speaking. He dialed and listened, foot tapping impatiently, as the line began to ring. 

And ring. 

And ring. 

After three minutes of solid ringing, and no answer of any kind, Sherlock slammed the phone back down. He paced the room angrily for a moment, and then went back to try again. 

Three minutes. 

Four minutes. 

Somewhere around the six minute mark, Sherlock turned the phone to speaker, and went to tune his violin. 

Around the twelve minute mark, he started to rustle around in the kitchenette, looking for something which might boil water. 

Around the twenty minute mark, he realized he didn’t have any tea anyway. 

At twenty five minutes of solid ringing, and no answer, Sherlock hung the phone back up, and threw it at the wall. 

And then he sat down, and began to write. 

* 

John Watson, 

Fix your telephone line. I realize you have a certain anathema against such modern conveniences as a mobile phone or a computer with internet access, but surely even you realize that having a telephone line is less convenience than it is a necessity, particularly since you live in such a remote location that easily obtaining assistance in a dire emergency would be difficult to attain without a means of contacting local services. 

Conversation is required regarding your song. The notes do not scan properly and I question whether or not you were actually sober at the time of its writing. You are attempting to write a ballad; your analysis has been sound to date, but I believe the song has a note of anger in it which ought to be extrapolated and is deserving of the primary melodic focus. There is merit in the song or I wouldn’t bother. I must speak with you. Fix your phone line. 

Sherlock Holmes 

* 

Dear Mr Holmes, 

How did you know my telephone line wasn’t working properly? And that I don’t have a cell phone or an email address? And which song are you talking about? Mike said you’ve got half a dozen at least. 

I’m always sober. 

John Watson 

* 

John, 

The phone rang out for twenty-five minutes without anyone answering. That is plenty of time for anyone within hearing distance to reach the phone and pick it up, so I can assume you didn’t hear it. However, you live in a remote area working with animals that require you to be outside for great lengths of time; as such, it would be illogical for you not to have an answering device of some kind, and you are a logical man. Had the phone been ringing and you not heard it, any device would have picked up after four or six rings automatically, even if the ringer itself was not working. As no machine picked up, I can assume the problem lay not in the ringer but the line itself. 

You have not said if you fixed the problem, and when I tested your phone line just now, it reached twelve rings, meaning your line is still not fixed. 

You are clearly an intelligent man, though I wonder about your wanting to hide away on an isolated farm in the middle of Oklahoma. Are horses better companions than humans? I have little experiences with horses, but plenty with humans, and I can confirm that the latter are a ridiculous species a majority of the time. 

You don’t have a mobile phone or an internet connection because you believe that you want to be left alone, and such things would make it easier to contact you. I should add that this is not actually true, that you want to be left alone. In fact, you are extremely lonely and desperately crave contact, but believe you don’t deserve it. Ridiculous, John. Fix your phone line. 

I’m talking about the love song. If you are always sober, that would likely be your problem. Country music is best sung slightly inebriated, I’ve found. And call me Sherlock. 

SH 

* 

John, 

It has been a week since my last letter. Was it lost in the mail? 

SH 

* 

Sherlock, 

I’ve been in _shock_ , you git. How did you know all that? Have we met before? Did you look me up? You’re a bit of an asshole, aren’t you? 

The love song. They’re _all_ love songs. And by their definition, they’re _meant_ to be sung a little slower, not all hard rockabilly whatever goddamn fool thing you want to do with it. If you don’t like how it’s written you sure don’t have to sing it. You’ve got the number three song in the country now, you can pick and choose them. 

And maybe I don’t want anyone contacting me, did you think of that? Horses might not be people, but at least they don’t ask questions you don’t want to answer. 

John 

* 

John, 

I’ve angered you. How very interesting. Here I thought you were some boring cowpoke and it turns out you rather like a game of chance, don’t you? Because, as you say, I have what is now the second most popular country western song in the country at the moment (which is, as you do not mention, of your own writing) and yet you are arguing with me in what I can only assume is an attempt to tell me to piss off and never sing another song of yours again. 

I just checked with my manager. You receive residuals for every song of yours I choose to sing, when I sing it – so there is profit to be had in not angering me. Therefore I can only assume that you either have no use for the money, or you enjoy the thrill of possibly losing your income. How long have you been aware of your gambling habit, John? 

No, we have never met. I couldn’t look you up if I tried; there are approximately 243 John Watsons in the Midwestern states alone, and while I’m sure I could determine which is you by cataloging them, I’d rather not waste time in that endeavor just for a parlor trick, particularly when I can read everything I need to know by your words, your typewriter, and your songs. 

I am referring to the love song that is not a love song so much as it is a wishing for love song. 

SH 

* 

John, 

I’m still waiting for an answer, John. This song of yours is slowly driving me mad. I tried to sing it the way you’d written the notes and it sounded unbearably horrific. I believe a cat sitting outside the window died in out of sheer pique. 

You are typing on a manual typewriter, circa 1974. The ink cartridge is fairly new, leading me to think you can either manufacture them yourself, or someone purchased them in bulk the last time they were for sale, which was at least twenty years ago if not more. You yourself cannot be more than forty (my best guess is thirty-seven, though I’ll allow for two years error in either direction). Therefore, since I doubt you were so forward-thinking as a young adult, the typewriter belonged to a deceased relative. Why deceased? Because you live alone, and if you have their typewriter, they have no need for it. Also, a typewriter in this day and age is an old person’s machine. Therefore, it belonged to someone else before it belonged to you. An inheritance, perhaps the only one received, because surely if you had found yourself in money you would have spent it on a laptop. 

SH 

* 

John, 

Have the horses run you over? Are you lying broken and bleeding out in the fields? No, of course not, there are vultures in Oklahoma, aren’t there? They would have picked your bones clean by now. Horses being vegetarian, they’d just wait for the grass to grow under your bones; blood and viscera make excellent fertilizer. 

Something you cannot do with a typewriter, John, is plug an address into a search engine, and have it locate the address on a map. You do live in the middle of nowhere. It’s conceivable that you have died, and no one has noticed yet. What happens to the copyright on your songs when you die, John? Have you determined who will control them? Perhaps I should assume the worst, and send them a note instead. 

The love song, John. I need new music for the love song. 

SH 

* 

John, 

You persist in not answering. You will find I am equally persistent. I am recording a series of songs next week; your ridiculous love song is meant to be one of them, and if you do not wish me to butcher it, you’ll be there to assist. There is a ticket enclosed with this letter; please use it if convenient. If not convenient, use it anyway. A song’s success is at stake, John. 

SH


	4. Just Drifting By

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just so’s we’re all clear – the Mary in this story predates S3, so she doesn’t have the same…well, anything really. Except she probably is pretty good with a gun, though not for the same reasons.
> 
> Chapter title and the song quoted at the end from Slaid Cleaves’s [Cold and Lonely](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_7ay9vutpyU), which might just be the most depressing country song in the history of the world, and yes, I’m aware that Whiskey Lullaby in on every list known to man. But Cleaves’ song matches the mood in this chapter a bit better. I warn you, it’s so depressing, I was giggling like a maniac as I listened, but I think Richard Harris’s MacArthur Park is brilliant stuff, so YMMV. The other song John thinks about is his own (and was written by me).

The letters remained in a pile where John left them, on the counter next to the fridge. A neat little stack of cream-colored envelopes, his name and address in spiky handwriting. 

John meant to throw them away. Every morning he saw the pile, snorted in derision, and resolved to actually do it. 

In the meantime, the letters sat and gathered dust, and sometimes instead of dust, they simply gained another letter. 

The crisp fall weather turned into brutal winter just before Thanksgiving. John suffered through the motions at Mary’s, where she’d invited half the town, including Doc Molly, who seemed to have found new courage in a new dress, and was determine to use it on talking to him. John listened and nodded and said what he hoped were the right things at the right times. He ate turkey and oyster stuffing, roasted root vegetables and potatoes with gravy, home-made cranberry sauce and green beans and macaroni cheese and didn’t taste a thing, and when he was done, he graciously refused the pumpkin pie because he’d already spent too long from the horses, there was a wind kicking up and he needed to get home before the storm blew in. 

The other guests protested and poked gentle fun at his work ethic; none of them seemed terribly upset at his early departure. Horses, after all, were a 24/7 job, and every person there understood and made no move to stop John from going. Mary stood by the door and watched him go, and the next day when he returned to his house after checking the fences, there was half an apple pie waiting for him in his kitchen. 

The pile of letters remained untouched. John couldn’t tell if they were quietly mocking, or just quiet. He looked at them and felt a pang of guilt for not answering them, and then a moment later remembered what they actually said, and the anger drove him straight out of the house and into the yard, across the frostbitten grass and the icy gravel into the warm barn, full of horses who didn’t ask questions and pressed their noses into his hand. 

He wrote the songs, sure. Didn’t mean he owned them. Not like that. Cocky, self-assured, stuck up Brit kid could do whatever he wanted with them, if he didn’t like ‘em. 

The dog waited for him inside the barn. Its brothers were somewhere else, eating their scraps and chow and chasing down rats and the rest, but this one was determined to stay near John. He sat up when John came in, watching him expectantly, and followed John outside, but always at a respectable distance, understanding that John might tolerate him, but didn’t want him all the same. It was only recently that John would look around, and not see the dog, and that little trickle of worry would creep in. But the dog always turned up, eventually. 

Frost turned the pale grass white; the clouds hung low over the horizon. Storm coming in, John decided, and went into the shed for the coats. Most of the horses wouldn’t need them, but Calufrax’s owners were skittish, and Pickering was just old. He fixed them up, and led them outside into the pale day, and the horses seemed to pick up just being in the cold air, as if they preferred the grand, frozen outdoors over the warm fug of a covered barn, soft hay for sleeping and warm oats for eating. 

Maybe they did, John thought, watching them gallop across the pasture. Remy, in an uncharacteristically spry mood, lay down and rolled, his feet flying ungainly in the air, and the dog seemed to catch on Remy’s suddenly receptive mood, and dashed out from behind John’s legs, through the fencing, and out to meet the horse, all frantically happy barks and wagging tail and flapping ears. 

John watched as Remy reached his nose out to give the dog what he imagined was a powerful sniff, and then Remy was up and running again, the dog barking happily behind him. Remy was faster; he’d get fifty feet ahead, and stop, turn his head to look for the dog, practically falling over itself in a desperate attempt to catch up, and as soon as it looked as if the dog might be on him, Remy’d take off again across the pasture. 

The dog never stopped, just kept on going, like it was the best game in the world. After a few goes, he did slow down, and sat down, tongue rolling out the side of its mouth, panting hard. 

Remy slowed, turned to look at it, and then when he realized the dog wasn’t following, trotted back to him, as if wondering if the game was up. 

The moment he was within striking distance, the dog took off in the opposite direction like a shot. Remy stopped in his tracks and snorted, realizing he’d been had. 

John, watching all of this play out, laughed. It was creaky and ill-used, and it almost hurt while at the same time, he felt just a tad bit lighter for it. He turned away from the play out on the pasture, closed up the gate, set the latch, and started back to the barn. 

The day dragged on in fits and starts – muck out the stalls, sawdust on the manure pile, fresh hay on the floors. John scrubbed out the troughs and refilled them; threw extra sand down on the indoor arena, tackled the mountain of paperwork regarding feed orders and medical charts and all the small and large charges that came with operating a stables, thing he never really had thought about before Murray had offered him the job. 

“It’s quiet. It’s out-of-the-way. Not much to do there but take care of the horses.” It had been less advertisement than cautionary tale; Murray had sounded dubious that John would even want to secret himself away from the world. Except it was exactly what John _had_ wanted. Still wanted. Probably would always want, John figured, and when Murray came back from Afghanistan, and John wasn’t needed to manage the stables anymore…well, he’d figure something else out. He’d have experience in the work by then, might be able to find a job somewhere else, remote enough that he didn’t have to think about people, didn’t have to worry about anyone caring too much about him. 

Didn’t have to worry about caring too much about _them_ , either. 

Two in the afternoon; the mail would have arrived out on the main road. John stretched and felt his stomach rumble. Tea and toast for breakfast, nothing since, and he felt hollow and light. He padded across the house on stocking feet, into the kitchen, where he rummaged about until he found a bit of chicken, bread, mustard, and fixed himself a sandwich. He glanced at the answering machine idly, still a solid number 1, and thought about calling the phone company. Mike had complained again about not being able to ring through, even though John was perfectly able to ring out. And Sherlock in the letters had said… 

John left the kitchen, shoved his feet into his boots, and stepped outside before even putting on his coat. The cold air was dry and brutal and served to snap him out of his line of thought. The dog sat up from the pile of blankets on the porch, expectantly watching John, who absently tossed the remainder of the sandwich in the air for him. The dog caught it neatly, and began to chow it down. 

“Mail run,” said John, and started the long walk down the lane to the main road. The dog finished off the sandwich and followed. 

The ground was frozen beneath John’s feet. The sky was bright blue, not a cloud to be seen, and the sun might have been weak, but it was warm enough on John’s shoulders. He rolled them, testing them out, and was satisfied when they didn’t ache with the motion. 

“Hard work, mucking out stalls and reining in horses,” Murray had said, and John hadn’t needed the reminder. It was half the reason he wanted the job. Clearly, it’d paid off; his fingers might ache, sharp shooting pains up his arm in the dead of night, or when the cold was really bad, but that he could walk the half mile down to the road, and back, and still have the energy to bring in the horses and brush down Remy and sweep the floors and all the other countless small things it took to keep the stables running…well, that was a blessing. That was enough. 

The thing about hard work, especially when it was routine, was that it was easy to get lost in it, forget anything existed outside of it. It was only in the dead of night, when John woke up for no reasons whatsoever, that he would lay in his bed and stare at the ceiling, and hear the voices echoing in his head, conversations he could forget in the light of day, and in them, he’d say different things, do different things, rewrite history until everything landed the way it ought to have done. Easy to pretend the bed he slept in was the one he remembered from years past, no longer ashes but actuality. 

The sunrise would render those dreams into ash themselves, until John was covered in it. 

The mailbox was half full of envelopes. Junk mail, flyers from various businesses, the odd catalog or two. John flipped through them while the dog sniffed the ground, clearly on the track of something delicious. A couple for Murray; he’d forward those on. One for Mary which had obviously been accidentally slipped into his pile at the post office; he shoved it into his coat pocket to give her later. He still had the pie plate leftover from Thanksgiving that needed returning, and that had been two months ago. That afternoon was as good a time as any. 

A rather thick envelope from Mike – too thick for a royalty check, and it wasn’t the right time of year for renewal of contracts. John ripped it open, and knew the moment his fingers touched the smooth paper, undoubtedly cream-colored, undoubtedly addressed to him, care of his agent. 

John cursed under his breath, and pulled it out. Yup. Another one, to add to the pile. And…John frowned, looking at the second page. 

An airline reservation? 

_I am recording a series of songs next week; your ridiculous love song is meant to be one of them, and if you do not wish me to butcher it, you’ll be there to assist. There is a ticket enclosed with this letter; please use it if convenient. If not convenient, use it anyway._

John snorted and shoved the letter and its damn fool enclosure into his pocket without reading the rest. He turned abruptly back for the house. The dog took another moment, one last longing sniff, before bounding to his side, yipping as if to explain to John what he’d just been doing. 

John shoved his hands into his pockets, bent his head down against the wind, and kept going. 

* 

“Oh, good, I need help with the ladder,” said Mary when John knocked on her door later that day. She spun on her heel and marched back into the house, leaving John to follow her, shedding his coat and boots in the hall. “In the kitchen,” Mary called back. 

The house was clearly in a state of flux, with the holidays over, but John could see the boxes of Christmas decorations in the corner, packed safely away for next year, and had no doubt about what Mary had been doing. He padded into the kitchen just in time to catch Mary as she stumbled down the ladder, and the box she’d been carrying went flying. 

“ _Oof_ ,” groaned Mary, and then grinned up at him. “Why, John Watson, I do declare. I never knew you were so _strong_.” 

John snorted, and righted Mary onto her feet. “Most people who ask for help, _wait_ before actually attempting whatever fool thing they’re trying to do.” 

“Oh, please, there wasn’t nothing in the box to break, I still have to fill it up. I just lost my balance. Is that my pie plate?” 

John nodded. “Unless you know of another apple pie fairy ‘round here.” 

“And you even washed it. Strong arms, likes horses, can wash a dish. Think I’ll keep you. Can you help carry all the boxes in the living room up to the attic? The ladder goes out to the barn but you’ve already taken off your boots.” 

John set to work. Most of the boxes weren’t terribly heavy but there were quite a few of them, and by the time he was done, John had broken out a sweat. Mary smiled brightly when he reappeared and pushed him toward the table in the kitchen, which she’d laid out with coffee and cake and a sandwich so thick with meat and lettuce and tomatoes that John wasn’t sure his mouth could fit around it. 

“Ought to have vegetables or something but I’ve never been great shakes at cooking outside holidays,” confessed Mary. 

“You didn’t have to.” 

“A ‘course I do, you moved all those boxes for me, didn’t you? And brought back my pie plate.” 

“And a letter,” remembered John, and he sat the sandwich back down on the plate. “Mixed up with my mail.” 

Mary waved him down. “No, you sit. I’ll get it. In your coat?” 

“Yes.” 

The sandwich was better than Mary would have had John believe – or maybe he was just hungrier than he’d thought. He was halfway through the second half, with a sizable dent in the bowl of chips Mary had provided, when he realized that Mary hadn’t come back into the kitchen. 

“Mary, you get lost in your own house?” he called out, but his voice echoed back at him. He frowned, and hesitated before shoving back in the chair and leaving the sandwich on the plate. 

Mary was just turning from his coat hanging in the hall when John spotted her. He thought he could see her hand stuffing something back into his pocket, but wasn’t entirely sure because when she turned, her eyes were bright and her smile was shining, and in her hands she clutched the mis-delivered mail. 

“Sorry, you’ve got a lot of pockets in that coat,” she said cheerfully, but John knew how to listen, no matter what Sherlock Holmes might say. He could hear the false note in her voice. 

“Three of them,” John said cautiously, and already felt his heart sinking as Mary crossed the floor toward the kitchen. 

“Isn’t it funny, how you never find what you’re looking for in the first place you look?” said Mary. 

The letter. Sherlock’s letter, and its ridiculous enclosure. _Damn._

“It’s always in the last place you expect,” continued Mary. 

“Because most people stop looking after they’ve found what they want. Mary—” 

Mary waved her hand. “Finish your sandwich?” 

“Near enough.” 

“Suppose you’ll be leaving, then?” Mary’s voice caught; her entire body stilled for a moment, as if afraid to hear the answer, and then she continued, just as she had before, into the kitchen. John turned slowly and followed her. 

“Wasn’t thinking to just yet,” said John cautiously. “Still have to move the ladder.” 

Mary nearly threw the leftover sandwich plate into the sink. “The _ladder_? John Watson, are you having me on? I am not asking about a _ladder_.” 

“Then you’ll have to spell it out for me, Mary, because I had a higher opinion of you than someone who’d look at a person’s private correspondence!” 

Mary flushed and turned back to the sink. “I didn’t realize it wasn’t for me until I’d opened it. And then I couldn’t help but wonder why Sherlock Holmes would be writing to _me_. Except the only thing that makes _less_ sense is why he’d be writing to _you_ , because you don’t even know who he is!” 

“I know who he is.” 

“Well, of course you do – apparently the man is singing songs _you_ wrote! And now he’s sending you tickets to fly off to Nashville—” 

“I’m not going.” 

Mary rounded on him again. “What?” 

John held up his hands. “Why the hell would I go to Nashville, Mary? Who would take care of the horses?” 

“Who would…” echoed Mary blankly, and then she surged toward him, the dishtowel in her hand flying at his head as if it were a whip, punctuating each word with another slap at John’s head. “ _The horses_? This is about _the horses_? John – Watson – you – are- an – _idiot_.” 

John tried to block the towel from his head, somewhat ineffectively. But then, the towel wasn’t all that good of a weapon as it was. “Hey!” 

“A celebrity sends you plane tickets, _you go_!” shrieked Mary, and dropped the towel on the kitchen floor. “Oh, hell. _I’ll_ go, you stay here with the horses.” 

“Mary!” yelled John, and followed her out of the kitchen. 

“Oh, don’t protest, shame to let them go to waste. And have you _seen_ the man? He’s the tallest drink of cold water I’ve seen on a hot day since I was three and thought the sun rose and set in Danny Bonaduce. I can sing. Maybe I can help him out.” 

John stared at Mary as she went down the hall to the little bedroom he knew was in the back of the house. He could hear her rummaging around in the closet – she couldn’t actually be choosing clothes to pack, could she? 

Then he heard a thump, and the spin of wheels, and imagined a little pull-along suitcase. He groaned and let his head fall in his hands. Dammit all to hell if she wasn’t trying to call him out… 

Only one thing to do. “Fine,” he called back to her. “Go on and use ‘em. Like you say, shame to let them go to waste.” 

A pause, and then heavy footfalls as Mary came back down the hallway. “What?” 

“Go ahead,” said John placidly, and he made himself comfortable on the sofa. “I’ve heard you sing, you can carry a tune better’n me. Not sure you’re quite what this Holmes fellow is expecting, but maybe you can fix whatever he thinks is broke.” 

Mary stared at him for a moment, and then disappeared down the hallway again. John heard her walk halfway down, and then come storming back out. 

“John Watson,” she said, eagle eyes and fists on hips. “You are trying to call my bluff.” 

“Nah,” said John. He propped his feet up on the ottoman and rummaged along the side of the chair for a magazine. _Entertainment Weekly_. “Is this the one with the review of that spy flick?” 

“It’s not going to work. I can call and change the name on those tickets. Always wanted to see Nashville. The Grand Ole Opry. Graceland.” 

“That’s Memphis.” 

Mary kicked the ottoman out from under John’s feet. John glanced at her over the magazine and frowned, but said nothing. Mary stared at him, shaking with annoyance, and then she threw up her hands and collapsed on the sofa nearby. 

“I swear, I cannot suss you out, John Watson.” 

“Mmm,” said John, and turned a page. 

“Anybody with their head on straight would jump at free tickets out of this town and all you can say is, ‘Well, someone has to watch the horses’.” Mary dropped her voice to imitate him in a way that he didn’t think was meant to be flattering. 

“It’s true.” 

“It’s _bull_ , that’s what it is. You’ve been here near a year without a single day off, and don’t think I haven’t watched men go mad with that kind of schedule. Murray wouldn’t mind if you asked for a few days. Hell, I think he owes ‘em to you – there’s laws about vacation time, and days off, and you ain’t taken none of that.” 

“I get plenty of compensation without you looking out for me, Mary.” 

“Compensation? What, like burying yourself in a no-name town in the middle of nowhere and ignoring anyone who tries to make friendly with you? _That’s_ compensation?” 

“It what I signed up to do, Mary.” 

“And I’ve always wondered _why_.” 

“Maybe I couldn’t get anything else.” 

Mary went still – too still. John looked at her over the magazine again. “I can hear you thinking from this chair, Mary.” 

“I’ve known Bill Murray since we were four years old,” said Mary, low. “And do you know what he said to me, the week after you moved in? ‘Be kind.’ Don’t rightly know what he meant, I’m always kind. But I was fixing to come over and bring food and introduce you to everyone, make sure you knew where you stood and that’s all he said, _be kind_ , as if the kindest thing I could do for you was to leave you alone.” 

John had long since stopped reading the magazine. His hand shook, the papers rattling together, and he slammed it down on his lap to stop the noise. “You always ignore what he tells you?” 

“I did, though. I let you be, I waited a whole month before I stopped by, and I made sure I had a reason apart from bringing you a pie to welcome you. And I’ve never asked you about your past or your kin or anything that might have brought you here. I’ve left you as alone as I can manage. And I think I know you, John Watson – least, I _thought_ I knew you. Knew you to be a decent man with a strong sense of pride and self-reliance, never wanting to ask for help when you could do it yourself. Never wanting to accept charity or a helping hand when you could make do with what you had. But a _good_ man, under all that. Just wanting your own bit of space. And you’re telling me you don’t deserve more than a day or two to do whatever it is from your past is calling you back?” 

“Sherlock Holmes ain’t my past.” 

“He’s something to you, I expect.” 

“He’s nothing to me.” 

“He’s singing music you wrote.” Mary sucked in her breath and sprang to her feet. “It’s you, ain’t it?” 

“Mary—“ 

She was quick, he’d give her that. She was across the room and rummaging in the drawer under the stereo; after a moment, she pulled out a CD, and had opened it quick as anything. She pulled out the booklet and started to scan it before shouting out in glee. “ _Here_. Right here, look at that.” 

Mary thrust the booklet under John’s nose. 

_River Street Torch Song_  
 _Words by John Watson_  
 _Music by John Watson, Sherlock Holmes_

John got to his feet slowly, and walked to the window, still holding the booklet. Just a fold of paper, not much to it, no lyrics printed and very light on the graphics; clearly the production company wasn’t willing to shell out much money for the packaging on a rising star just yet. Only a single photograph of a man in profile, dark silhouette against the light coming in from the barn doors. 

He was tall, Mary wasn’t wrong. Tall and lithe, leaning against a post, large hands wrapped around the wood as if he might fall over if he let go. His head was bent forward just a tad, his boots – the high-heeled kind, with the smooth curve to the ankle – were toes-up, heels on the ground. Maybe he’d fallen backwards, caught the post at the exact moment the photographer had snapped the camera. Maybe he was comfortable in that odd position, still and quiet, waiting for the word to spring to action. The dark line of him was sharp against the bright light behind; he couldn’t have been in motion. The wide-brimmed hat hung low on his head, almost ready to fall, and John thought if he did, the man might catch it as smoothly as if it’d been planned from the start. 

He wondered, briefly, what that man looked like. He turned the booklet over, thinking his face would surely grace the front, but instead, it was a close-up of the tight curves of a violin against a dark purple velvet background. 

Mike had told him the song had been sold, months ago. Second track on a single, John thought he remembered Mike saying. Meaning the artist liked it but didn’t expect it to go much of anywhere. 

_This is what I ain’t been told_  
 _On the day that I grew old_  
 _This is how I ain’t been bred_  
 _This ain’t the life I should have led…_

“I don’t want to know your secrets,” said Mary, somewhere behind him. 

“You sure seem intent on asking about them,” said John, but he couldn’t manage to set the booklet down. 

“I’m not. Not really. But…” Mary paused. “If Sherlock Holmes ain’t part of your past, he sure seems interested in being part of your future.” 

John snorted softly. “I have to get back to the horses.” 

“The horses, the horses,” said Mary, wretchedly. “It’s always the _horses_ with you.” 

John set the booklet down on the table, but didn’t draw his hand away just yet. “I run a stables, Mary – it can’t be anything but.” 

He stepped back, leaving the booklet behind, but the silhouette of the young man was already burned in his memory. The light shining through the curls in his hair, the bridge of his boot, the curve at the back of his knee. 

“And that’s what your life is now? _Horses_ , and ignoring letters from Sherlock Holmes? You forget, I know you, John Watson. I think I might know you better than any other person in this entire state.” 

“How do you figure that?” 

“I’m the only one who knows who you are.” 

John shook his head. 

“No one else knows you write songs for Sherlock Holmes, do they? Just me. Well, I know those songs, John. I’ve listened to them in the dead of night and I’ve sung them by the light of the day and I’ve watched you over the last year since Bill told me to be kind, and I know you’re running from something, and you say that something isn’t Sherlock Holmes, and I know you cain’t lie so I have to believe you. And whatever you’re running from, it’s terrible, and being here for a year hasn’t lessened the pain I see in your eyes when you think no one’s looking. So I don’t think being _here_ is helping you one bit. And if writing these songs helps – maybe you _should_ forget the horses, and use those tickets and get the hell out of here, and see if Sherlock Holmes don’t help you forget whatever it is brought you here in the first place.” 

_This is the life was handed me_   
_From rocky shore to stormy sea_   
_I’m bound by choice and sealed by fate_   
_I pray to God it’s not too late_

John breathed. In, out. In, out. Behind him, Mary was waiting. He knew what she wanted to hear: for him to capitulate, to agree to go, to make plans for care of the horses. To smile a bit sheepishly, maybe shed a tear or two, to give her a hug and a word of thanks for breaking him free of the prison sentence she felt he’d been serving. 

And that’s what it was, what she proposed he’d been doing – serving a prison sentence of sorts, the daily routine of waking up, caring for the horses, going to bed at night, never a day’s break or relief. 

“You’re not the judge and jury of me, Mary,” said John, fingers tapping the booklet with Sherlock Holmes’s picture. 

“No, of course not,” said Mary. “But you don’t belong here. I’m not sure you ever did.” 

“There’s a whole town what would disagree with you.” 

“I know. Don’t matter. I’m the one who’s right.” 

John chuckled. “I’m not using the tickets.” 

Mary exhaled. “You’re a fool, then.” 

John shook his head. “No.” 

He stepped away from the table, and careful not to look at Mary, walked to the door to pull on his boots. 

Mary followed him. “No, you _are_ , John Watson. I don’t…I don’t understand you. You cain’t tell me you _want_ this, to live and die on a horse ranch in the middle of Oklahoma, a footnote in some biography of a country star?” 

“Don’t matter. I’m needed here.” 

“You’re needed in Nashville!” 

“Sherlock Holmes don’t need me.” 

“I think he’s already said different!” 

“If he knew me, he’d say otherwise.” The boots were on; John fixed up his coat and took his hat from the hooks. “I’ll get your ladder before I go.” 

Mary watched him heft the ladder, arms crossed, silent and fuming. John could feel the disapproval weigh him down. He ignored it. 

“I never thought it, you know. That you were running from trouble. Least, not in that way.” 

“Not the first time you’ve been wrong,” said John, and opened the door. 

“It must have been powerful bad, though, to keep you this way. What’d you do, John Watson? Rob a bank? Burn down a schoolhouse?” Mary paused. “Kill someone?” 

John paused, halfway across the threshold. It was enough; Mary sucked in a breath. 

“No…John, _no_.” 

His voice was gravelly and gruff. “Ladder goes in the barn, you said. I’d thank you to keep whatever you’ve learned about me to yourself.” 

“You…it was just words, John. You couldn’t hurt a fly.” 

The door closed behind him, and Mary stood at the window to watch John cross the lawn, the ladder tucked under his arm. 

* 

First, the horses. John went into the stables, fed and watered, collected the horses from the pasture, brushed them down, removed blankets, rewrapped legs and soothed and nickered in response when the horses called to him. He patted their hoses and shoulders, rubbed the places where their bridles chafed, spent time brushing out Remy’s mane and tail, made note of Calufrax’s eyes and finally stood with Bastian, who was jittery and nervous, uneasy with the weather and God knew what else. 

“Never you mind, Bastian,” John told the horse, and brushed him down, tip to tail, letting the soothing motion soothe both of them. By the time he was done, Bastian was calmer, quieter, eyes drooping, and John was bone-tired and ready to drop. 

The dog waited at the front door. John barely saw it; he went inside and sat heavily on the chair by the coat hooks. The dog, overwhelmed by being inside for perhaps the first time in its entire life, stayed by his side, wiggling, before temptation became too much and he went sniffing every last little thing in the tiny room. John closed his eyes and leaned his head back to rest against the wall behind him. 

His head was full of a dull roar, a strange crackling sort of noise, snapping and creaking and breaking with thunder. The static of a radio without a station; the roar of the ocean in the middle of the storm, the moment after lightening has struck. John listened to the noise, and heard the dog whimper with excitement, the soft whisper of it sniffing the bench and the floor and his boots. 

John opened his eyes, and slowly reached for the bootjack. He took off his boots one at a time, lined them up next to the bench, and without standing, shrugged off his coat. The leeway was cold without it, but John didn’t hurry; he hung his hat on a peg, and padded into the main house, shutting the door to the freezing little leeway just after the dog slipped through to the main house. 

He’d left on the small lamp, but that was all right. The sky was near dark, and it was better than coming back to a pitch-black house. The dog kept sniffing, tail wagging like mad, and John walked through to the kitchen. Creaks and groans as he crossed the floorboards, the sniff of the dog as he found a particularly delicious spot of air, the gentle tinkling of the glasses lined up in the china cupboard, placed a bit too closely together. 

John stood in the kitchen, and realized he wasn’t hungry. The room was dark, cold, entirely unwelcoming. John pulled the envelope from Sherlock Holmes out of his pocket, and felt the thick contents. The letter, and the confirmation codes for the flights he’d intended John to take. 

John dropped the envelope on the pile, and left the kitchen again. 

The dog had finished his inspection, and was sitting up on the chair where John normally sat. His tail thumped twice upon seeing John, and his tongue hung out the side of his grinning mouth. He didn’t look the least bit ashamed for having slipped inside, nor did he look all that worried that John would kick him back out again. Especially as when John looked out the window, it had started to sleet. 

John rubbed his hand over his face. “Fine,” he grumbled. “It’s fine.” 

He went back to the little bedroom, and undressed, dropping his clothes on the chair before crawling under the covers. The sleet came down in a rush, and John listened as it blended with the static in his head. It wasn’t long before he felt the mattress give as the dog jumped up, and then there was a wet nose burying itself under John’s hand, resting on his stomach as he settled beside his self-appointed master. 

_Cold and lonely_  
 _I never meant anybody harm_

The dog let out a wistful sigh. 

“Yeah,” said John, and scratched his ears, and stared at the ceiling above.


	5. Meet You In Between

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from [Lizzie and the Rain Man](http://youtu.be/NIlEFK0KZ6s) by Tanya Tucker. Read the chapter, then go listen, and remember that I wrote the chapter long before I found the song to go with. I am just _that good_. Feel free to read as much into the song as you like.

The door opened, and Sherlock didn’t open his eyes.  He remained perfectly still, lying on the couch with his hands steepled under his chin.  Every nerve in his body thrummed with excitement and anticipation, and he would have been on his feet like a shot, except it didn’t do to be _too_ excited.  Not with this man.

 

And then he heard the footfall as Ned Turner stepped into the green room, and Sherlock’s eyes were open like a shot. 

 

“He wasn’t on the flight,” said Sherlock, utterly disgusted.

 

“No.”

 

Sherlock frowned and closed his eyes again.  “Tedious.”

 

“Neither here nor there – you got a song to record, son.”

 

“Mmm.”

 

A deep sigh from Ned.  “Sulk on your own time, Sherlock.  There’s a room full of musicians who’re being paid union and while it ain’t no skin off their nose if they just sit and earn their paycheck for warmin’ seats, I’d rather pay ‘em for actually playing music.”

 

“There’s no music to _play_ , if John Watson isn’t here to tell us how to play it.”

 

“All due respect, Sherlock, it ain’t John Watson’s word we’re waitin’ on.”

 

Sherlock swung his legs off the sofa and opened his eyes to stare at his manager.  “The song. Doesn’t. Work.  It’s _missing_ something.”

 

“Yeah,” said Ned dryly.  “A _lead singer_.”

 

“No, something else,” said Sherlock, and he began to pace the little room.  “It’s not the words, though I’ll grant you they’re as awful as any other ridiculous song I’ve heard.  It’s the _music_ , there’s something wrong with the _music_ , and if you wanted it in any form but country, I could tell you how it’d go.  But this ridiculous three-four _twang_ ….”

 

Sherlock stopped pacing, growled, and pulled at his hair. 

 

“Well, whenever you’re done disparagin’ the twang, see if you can’t mosey on down to the recording studio and actually sing a bit of it,” said Ned placidly.  “Oh, before I forget, phone call for you.”

 

Sherlock stilled.  “Not John Watson.  Oh.  _Ugh_.  No.  Tell my brother to piss off.”

 

“Tell him yourself, he’ll be here in the morning.”

 

Sherlock’s mouth dropped open.  “ _Mycroft_?”

 

“Yep.  Pleasant fellow, I might like him.”

 

“Oh, God,” said Sherlock, and stormed past Ned into the hallway, where he turned left.

 

“Studio’s the other way!”

 

“I’m not going to the studio!”

 

Ned stepped out into the hall just in time to see Sherlock reach the doors leading to the parking lot.  “Well, where in tarnation do you think you’re going?”

 

Sherlock looked back at him, face utterly determined.  “John Watson.  To drag a song out of him if it kills me.”

 

*

 

It was illogical to fly to Oklahoma; besides, it would have taken too little time.  A flight there, locating John Watson, sitting out the inevitable fan-worship and adulations before sitting him down and rewriting the music to his ridiculous song, and then a flight back – Sherlock estimated that he would have been back in Nashville before the following afternoon, which did not give him nearly enough time to avoid meeting Mycroft.  The drive was tedious, but at least it took _time_ , and by the time Sherlock reached the little town in the middle of nowhere, it was well past dark, and his eyes felt gritty and heavy.

 

There was a single motel off the main highway, the sort that looked more like a long shed with individual stalls set back under a ramshackle awning.  The sign blinked neon red, and Sherlock stared at it for a long moment, trying to decide whether or not he should just turn around and head the hour north to Tulsa, where there was sure to be a Four Seasons, or a Ritz-Carlton, and failing that, a Marriott that might have 1000-count percale sheets and multiple pillows on every bed.

 

The yawn made up his mind.  Sherlock doubted he’d be able to drive much of anywhere else before falling asleep, and wasn’t that just what Mycroft would want?  _Rising British Country Star falls asleep at wheel in the middle of bloody nowhere, story on Page C36_.  Sherlock pulled the truck opposite the lobby door and tried to stifle a second yawn.

 

The lobby was empty and orange.  Sherlock could have just kipped out on the sofa – God knew it wouldn’t have been the worst place he’d ever slept – but saw the little bell on the counter and rang that instead.

 

“Otis, that you?”  The voice was high and country in a way that Sherlock had come to dislike greatly. 

 

“No,” he said, irritable.  “Just a room.  With a bed, without the bedbugs if such a thing is permissible.”

 

“Maybe,” said the voice, and its owner came through the door, yawning herself.  “Who’s asking?”

 

“The name’s Sherlock Holmes, and the credit card is on the counter.  I’ll just kip out here on the sofa while you type it all in.” 

 

Sherlock turned to collapse on the sofa.  It was just as uncomfortable as he’d imagined, and he was trying to relax into it when he realized he hadn’t heard the woman start processing his room.  He opened a single eye, and saw her standing behind the counter, staring right back at him.

 

“Ah, did you need anything else?”

 

“You’re Sherlock Holmes.”

 

“I am.”

 

“You’re…you’re _Sherlock Holmes_.”

 

Sherlock sighed, and reached back for his hat, suddenly glad he’d thought to bring it in.  He tipped it over his face.  Really, the way people obsessed over anyone with the merest _hint_ of celebrity…. “Wake me when the room is ready, please.”

 

The woman let out a peal of laughter.  “Sherlock Holmes is _in my lobby_.”

 

“Sherlock Holmes would like to be in one of your no doubt vaguely more comfortable beds, but someone is deliberately stalling the check-in process.”

 

“What are you doin’ here, of all places?”

 

“Sleeping on your lobby sofa,” said Sherlock, too tired to bother with anything remotely polite.  It didn’t seem to matter; the woman let out another laugh.  He hoped she wasn’t trying to flirt.

 

“I’ve got rooms available, but they’re nothing special.  Cable with HBO, if that suits you.”

 

“Undoubtedly it will, ma’am.”  He’d clearly spent too long in the American South; he could hear the slight drawl creeping it, and it made him cringe.  But the woman tittered, clearly delighted, and he heard the rattling of a key.  Sherlock opened his eyes to see the woman handing him an old-fashioned key with an old-fashioned plastic piece with the room number _221_.  How the motel even had _twenty_ rooms, let alone enough for two floors, was beyond Sherlock’s reasoning.

 

“Stayin’ long?”

 

“No,” said Sherlock. 

 

“Check-out’s 11 a.m.  But I could see my way to lettin’ you stay longer, if you need it.”

 

“I’ll let you know,” said Sherlock, and sat up to take the key. 

 

The room was every bit as horrible as Sherlock could imagine: the walls were textured wallpaper, the carpet was orange shag, the two double beds might have been purchased in the late 70s, along with the thin polyester dark-brown coverlets.  The mirror was more silver than shine, and the white porcelain in the lavatory was rubbed away to reveal its grey core. 

 

But none of that mattered, because Sherlock was asleep before his head hit the pillow, and had no intention of staying any longer than strictly necessary.  

 

John Watson might not have known it, but his savior had arrived, and Sherlock had no intention of taking his time.

 

*

 

Sherlock had forgotten to pull the black-out curtains before he collapsed in the horrible bed, so when he opened his eyes some twelve hours later, the entire room glowed. 

 

He blinked a few times, and then realized it was because the textured wallpaper had some sort of metallic glint to it, doubling the intensity of the sunlight, which was already fairly intense for February, and taking on an orange hue due to the carpet.

 

The sooner he found John Watson and dragged decent music out of him, the better, thought Sherlock.  Of course, _decent_ did not necessarily include _country_ in Sherlock’s estimation, and he had no illusions about what John Watson might be capable of composing, and certainly not what Ned Turner was expecting him to play.  Sherlock dragged his own carcass out of bed and into the lavatory for a shower.  The water took a moment to get hot, but once it was there, it was scalding. 

 

There was no coffee pot with complimentary coffee in the room, and of course nothing resembling tea of any sort.  All the same, once he was dressed again, Sherlock was feeling more or less himself, if still a little not-quite-there, probably due to the achingly long drive the day before, as well as the strange bed and strange surroundings.  He checked his phone briefly, saw the dozen or so missed calls and messages, all from Mycroft, and smirked.  Then he checked the room over to make sure he’d left nothing behind, and headed to the lobby.

 

“Have a good night, hon?” asked the woman behind the desk as Sherlock handed her the key.  It might have been the same woman from the night before; Sherlock wasn’t inclined to check closely.  The sooner he was on the road to John Watson, the better.

 

“No,” said Sherlock, irritable.  “I require tea.”

 

“Breakfast ended about twenty minutes ago, but I think there’s some donuts left over,” said the woman cheerfully.  “Could see my way to lettin’ you have a few.  Less for me to eat, anyway.”

 

“Donuts are not tea.”

 

“Lemon or sweet?  I’ve got raspberry.”

 

Sherlock stared at her.  “Tea.  Not donuts.”

 

“I’m _talkin’_ tea.”

 

Sherlock sighed.  “I don’t pretend to know _what_ you’re ‘talkin’’, ma’am, but I assure you, it is _not_ tea.”

 

The woman chuckled.  “Lord, you’re as ornery as all them celebrity rags say, aren’t you?”

 

“I have no idea what the celebrity rags say, I don’t pay attention to them.”

 

“Don’t you?”

 

“No.”

 

“Well, good on you,” said the woman.  “Better not to know what they’re saying, if you don’t care what they think.  You can keep the key, if you’re coming back tonight.”

 

“I’m not,” said Sherlock shortly.

 

“Terrible bad storm comin’ in; might not be able to drive anywhere by this evenin’.”

 

Sherlock glanced out the window, where the sun was shining fiercely.  “Really.”

 

“Well, I’ll hold the room for you anyway.”

 

“Don’t bother.”  Sherlock was nearly at the door when he stopped and turned around.  “What do they say about me?”

 

The woman laughed.  Sherlock wasn’t entirely sure if the laughter wasn’t at his expense or not.  “That you’re the longest, rudest, most disdainful drink of water in country music today, and that behind that pretty face and those curls on your head is the heart of a cold-blooded machine.”

 

Sherlock frowned.  “Machines don’t have hearts.”

 

The woman snorted a laugh.  “You’ve never tried to coax a tractor to plowing that last row in the field during the gloaming, have you?”

 

Sherlock frowned and turned back to the door.

 

“They say you ain’t got the right to sing country music as good as you do.”

 

Sherlock paused, his hand on the door.

 

“And what,” he said, his voice dangerous and thin, “do they think is required to have the right?”

 

“I surely don’t know.  But I think you sing all right, if that’s what you’re askin’.”

 

“It’s not.”

 

“Didn’t think it was.”

 

“Your housemaid has been skimming money off the till when you’re not looking.”

 

“I know.  My cheap-ass brother who owns this place hasn’t given her a raise in two years; I reckon she deserves it.”

 

Sherlock glanced at the woman, surprised.

 

“I’ll keep the room for you,” the woman added. 

 

“I won’t be back.”

 

“All the same,” said the woman, a bit smugly.  “If someone else is behind the desk, ask for Hilda.  That’s me.”

 

“You’d hardly have given me the name of the maid,” countered Sherlock, and let the door slam behind him.

 

*

 

Compared to the drive from Nashville, it was a short drive to the stables.  Compared to much of anything else, it was fairly long – long enough at least for Sherlock to be glancing at the clock on the dash, wondering just how anyone could stand to live this far away from anything worthwhile. 

 

By the time he turned off the main road and onto the gravel path that ended at the stables themselves, Sherlock was drumming his fingers restlessly against the steering wheel.  Given the size of the farm, he estimated it would take approximately ten minutes to locate John Watson.  Half an hour of discussion, followed by a few practice runs on the broken piano Watson used to compose, as well as a few minutes of nonsense in which Sherlock would be forced to listen to whatever other songs Watson had written lately. 

 

Sherlock estimated he would be able to return to Nashville in approximately one hour – two at the outside.  Already Mycroft was probably pacing his rooms, cursing his name, and probably eating far too much cake for his comfort.  Sherlock’s mouth quirked at the pleasant thought of Mycroft inconvenienced, and wondered, if he showed a slightly elevated interest in the horses, if Watson would allow him to extend his stay another hour or four or ten, just to inconvenience Mycroft still further.

 

Sherlock pulled the car directly up to the barn – far more likely he’d find Watson somewhere in there, or in the fields, than in his house.  And certainly Watson was around _somewhere_ ; there was a rusting pick-up truck parked in front of the little house which undoubtedly belonged to the farm itself and no one else. 

 

A half dozen dogs were waiting to greet him when he stepped out of the car.  The wind was growing stronger, whipping his hair into his eyes as he leaned over to let the dogs sniff his hand in greeting, before they bounded off in another direction, still barking madly amongst themselves.  Sherlock followed them into the barn, dim even with the electric lights blazing overhead.  The scent of horses, thick with salty, musky sweat and sweet hay, filled his nose; Sherlock flared his nostrils and tried to breathe through his mouth.  He could almost taste the air.  Sherlock glanced in a few of the stalls; empty.  The horses would be outside, of course – and Watson undoubtedly with them. 

 

Sherlock headed out the back of the barn, the rough brush of his shoes on the gravelly concrete changing to the soft pad on damp ground as he went.  The sky was ominously low overhead, dark with clouds, and the air smelled wet, almost similar and not at all like London on a day of approaching storms.  The further he walked from the barn, the fresher the air became, and the more Sherlock breathed it in, the less like London it seemed.

 

Pity. It almost made him homesick, for a moment, and then he spied the movement in the paddock.  Horses, including one that carried a man on its back.

 

 

It was some distance off; Sherlock set off and didn’t see where he was going, and splashed ankle-deep into a puddle of mud.  It soaked straight through his trouser leg and started creeping in the seams of his shoes.

 

“Bloody hell,” he muttered, stepping out of the muck and glaring at it.  The rest of the field was sure to be as muddy; he glanced around the area before spying a suspicious, promising pile against the doors.  After a moment, Sherlock went to investigate.

 

*

 

The storm was moving in quick; the horses were skittish and stayed close by John, though they tried to be nonchalant about it.  Remy was just plain ornery, going up to push John’s torso with his nose, as if chiding him to hurry up about his work and get on with it already, didn’t he see the storm clouds on the distance? 

 

John did.  John was wearing his good coat.  John didn’t much care if he got wet; it was only water, after all.  It’d dry.

 

But the field was already slippery with mud, and John was nearly done with the work for the day.  He wasn’t particularly hungry, but there was an odd emptiness to him that he supposed could be filled up with food and coffee as well as anything else, and the idea of weathering another winter storm in the chilly little house was a darn sight better than trudging along through a muddy field and then trying to wash the mud off a herd of horses who were annoyed that you hadn’t been listening to them all along.

 

The dog had pricked up his ears when its brothers had barked their heads off half an hour before, but hadn’t seemed inclined to leave John’s side.  John hadn’t thought much of it; the other dogs were good enough watchdogs, they’d scare off anything worth scaring, and anyone not worth scaring, they’d knock off barking quick enough.

 

It was only when John saw the strange figure picking its way through the muddy field that he remembered the barking.  Small wonder, really; John’s hackles weren’t raised exactly, but he stopped what he was doing and watched the slow, fumbling progress across the mud, curious about who was underneath all the weatherproofing.

 

Whoever it was, he looked somewhat ridiculous under what seemed to be the bright orange anorak that John had found and discarded that morning.  It didn’t fit the visitor any better than it had fit John – it was clearly made for a much taller, much wider man than he was, and while the length seemed about right on the visitor, it was still wide enough that it kept catching in the brisk wind, puffing the stiff fabric out behind him – or her, John supposed – like a sail caught in the wind.  A breeze would have been one thing; but this was Oklahoma, and the wind meant business; caught in the anorak, the wind halted the figure’s progress entirely, and while John watched, the figure fell over several times into the mud, coming up less obnoxiously orange every time, as he was further coated in soil and grass – and probably not smelling altogether sweet, either.

 

The third time he fell, he didn’t get up immediately.  John shook his head, fixed his hat, and stowed his tools in Remy’s saddlebag before swinging himself up and trotting over.

 

The horses, of course, followed him, and the dog yipped merrily as it ran on ahead to sniff the orange-and-mud-coated visitor, who was flat on his back in the mud, and possibly looked even more ridiculous on close inspection.  The hood of the anorak over his face so that John couldn’t see his face, and in addition to the orange anorak, he wore the bright yellow work boots that John had discarded for being too large. 

 

John leaned forward onto the horn of Remy’s saddle, and watched as the dog sniffed at the man, before the man ineffectually, and without much verve, tried to push him away.

 

“Trespassin’ and theft,” said John thoughtfully, and the man in the mud snorted.  “I could call the cops, but they’d want to hose you down before putting you in their cars.  And I’m not sure you’re worth the water, specially seeing as how the storm would wash you clean anyhow.”

 

“The storm won’t be here for another six hours,” said the man in a clipped, accented voice.

 

John stared at the man, and tried not to think about what the accent meant.  “Better look again,” he said mildly.

 

The man struggled to sit up in the mud.  The dog barked joyfully, its tail wagging, clearly pleased that the man wasn’t hurt or dead.  The man pushed the hood back from the anorak and turned to look at the horizon; John had only a glimpse of the man’s face, but it was streaked with mud as well. 

 

The man stared at the clouds in silence.  “It would appear that storms move more quickly in Oklahoma than they do in London.”

 

“I’m sure,” said John dryly.  “Well.  Best be getting up, unless you _want_ to be out in the rain when it comes in.”

 

“Snow by nightfall,” said the man.

 

John blinked once, and pulled Remy back from the mud, wondering how a British ponce who two minutes before hadn’t realized how fast storms moved in Oklahoma could possibly predict snow when the air clearly smelled like rain. 

 

“Well then,” he said, “that’s just more incentive to get on your feet and move, ain’t it?”

 

He set off toward the barn, the rest of the horses trailing him.  Except for Bastian, who seemed more inclined to stare at the Brit, as if trying to make up his mind, and the dog, who seemed to be laughing with his tongue hanging out of his mouth.

 

By the time the stranger made it to the barn, John had already finished brushing down Remy, and was setting to work on the next horse.  The man stood in the doorway, dripping mud on the concrete.  It was as if he knew enough not to come in, but wasn’t sure what to do otherwise.

 

“Christ,” muttered John under his breath, and raised his voice.  “You can leave my things by the door, then get back in your car and tell Sherlock Holmes I’m not interested.”

 

“They’re not your things,” said the man, and John snorted softly as he worked the brush over the horse’s flanks, getting off the worst of the mud and muck.

 

“Not yours either, and seeing as how I live and work here, they’re more mine than anybody else’s.”

 

“I’m inclined to agree, as possession is nine-tenths of the law, even in Oklahoma,” said the man as he shucked the anorak and hung it on a peg.  “But that does not make the garments ‘yours’ any more than my wearing them made them ‘mine’.  No more than this farm or these horses are yours.”

 

John looked over his shoulder at the man, now sitting on a bench and calmly removing the boots, revealing feet still clad in black leather shoes.  No wonder he could wear the boots – but still be unable to walk in them, if he were still wearing his own shoes.

 

“That what you think?” he asked, trying to keep his tone mild, but the faint annoyance was perceptible even to him.

 

The man on the bench heard it, and smirked.  “You live alone in the house just a little bit away – close to work which makes it convenient to working here in the barn but is fairly lonely work as there’s not another house for five miles at least, if not more.  The house is approximately fifty years old, well maintained but not cared for; the paint was done this past summer but the curtains in the window are twenty years old.  The barn is another ten years older than the curtains – I suspect the last barn was taken by fire – and there are more modern improvements, such as the heating system and some of the electrical lighting.  All of the horses are boarders, most of which are ridden every few days for dressage but otherwise leading fairly sedentary lives.  The dogs are primarily barn dogs, except for the one who sticks close by you – part of the same genetic group but clearly an outlier in that he appears to like the company of humans.  Unlike yourself, since you’ve been here going on two years now and don’t seem inclined to do much to change your lot despite opportunity and ability.”

 

John stared at the stranger, the brush long forgotten.

 

“That was….”

 

The stranger raised an eyebrow, and John shook his head and turned back to the horse.

 

“All right.  That was amazing.”

 

“I was right, of course,” said the stranger cockily.

 

“Not entirely, but still fairly accurate,” said John, and saw the stranger’s eyebrows go up. 

 

“ _Fairly_ accurate?”

 

John ignored him. “I’m not interested.  I’ve got a job to do here and I can’t just up and leave the horses on some British celebrity’s say-so.”

 

There was a pause before the man spoke again.  “Even if he sends you the ticket?”

 

“Horses don’t take vacations,” said John.  “So you can get on your way and thank him very much for me, but if he don’t like the song I wrote, he don’t have to sing it.  Nobody got a gun to his head.”

 

The man appeared to be startled, enough that even though he seemed like a talker to John, he didn’t say anything for a few minutes, while John took the horse back to its stall, and went on to the next one. 

 

“You don’t know—“ he started, and then stopped, as if trying to compose himself. 

 

“Probably not,” said John.  “I do know if you don’t get moving, that car won’t be able to get to the road for the mud, though.  Not with the rain comin’ in as fast as it is.”

 

“Don’t be ridiculous, I have at least twenty minutes,” began the man, before the rain started to pelt down on the roof of the stables.

 

John tried to hide the smirk as he continued to brush the horse down.  After a moment, the noise became louder, and when he looked, he saw the man had opened the barn door and was staring out at the wall of water outside. 

 

John had to shout to be heard over the noise.  “Ten.  And that’s only if it don’t flood first.”

 

That seemed to startle him.  “Flood?” he exclaimed.

 

“Carried a car clear to the Texas state line few years back.”  Not that John believed the tale; when Mary had told the story over Thanksgiving dinner, it had sounded far-fetched even with all of the wine that had been flowing.  But John couldn’t resist getting a dig in at the man, even if he _was_ an easy target.

 

If the man cursed – and John had no doubt that he did – he couldn’t be heard over the rain.  Instead, he stared out at the rain as if it was falling to spite him personally, and after a moment, John continued working on the horses. 

 

He had finished with Booker and was just going to start on Calufrax, when he realized that Bastian was missing.

 

As well as the strange Brit, no longer standing at the doorway.  Instead, the dog was looking out in the rain, agitated and moving from foot to foot, glancing back at John and then out again, whimpering the entire time.

 

“Oh, for,” groaned John.  His hat was still dripping on the concrete; he ignored the wet way it squelched on his head and went straight into the storm.

 

He nearly tripped over Bastian, who hadn’t ventured far; none of the horses were stupid animals, and even Bastian, who was about as stubborn as they came, didn’t particularly want to be outside when it was raining as hard it as it was. If John hadn’t known better, he would have thought there was an amused glint in Bastian’s eyes, when the beast turned to look at John, a sort of, “Get a load of _that_ idiot, won’t you?”

 

The idiot in question was slipping and sliding on the gravel, made incredibly slick by the pounding rain and the mud tracked in by the wind.  John stood pressed to Bastian’s side, not entirely sure he wanted to go and rescue the posh nitwit, not when the man was fool enough to dive headfirst into an Oklahoma storm like he had.  Might dive right back in.

 

And then, in the flash of lighting, John saw the man stumble, balance precariously on his toes for a moment, before falling face-first onto the gravel.

 

John sighed and shook his head.

 

“Might want to wait it out,” he called to the man.  “London’ll still be there when the weather lets up.”

 

The dog darted out into the rain, and nosed the man’s head.  After a moment, the man began to rise, only to let out a yelp as he tried to stand and slipped on the wet gravel to slide back to the ground.

 

“Hell,” said John, and went to help.  It was only when he’d slung the stranger’s arm over his shoulder that he realized the man how thin he was – long and thin and reedy, John could almost feel his ribcage through the layers of coat and gloves and cold. 

 

The man turned to head back to the car, but John shook his head.

 

“The house,” he shouted, not that he thought he could be heard over the rain pounding down around them.

 

“No, the car, I have to get my—“

 

“Are you insane?” shouted John as the man nearly pulled them both down onto the gravel. 

 

“If it floods—!”

 

“I was _joking_ ,” John shouted at him, and the man stared at him for a moment before carefully getting to his feet again and straightening his coat, for all the good it did him, being completely drenched to the bone with rain.  After that, all it took was one step in the correct direction, and the man followed John’s lead.  It was a slow walk to the house, and by the time they reached it, John was soaked to the bone himself. 

 

They reached the little house just as the rain was beginning to pick up in intensity – though John wasn’t entirely sure _how_ , since it’d already been raining hard and heavy before.  But it was dry and warm in the house, and it drew them in like a sponge – at least, it did the stranger, who was already walking out of the foyer, where it was thankfully uncarpeted, and into the main house, leaving large puddles behind with every step.

 

“Hey!” shouted John.  “You’re tracking in the mud.”

 

The man didn’t even pause; instead, he took another step into the living room, looking around.  In the light, it was easier for John to see just how disheveled he’d become.  He was soaked from head to toe; his suit appeared to have lost all structural integrity, clinging to his body in ways that were as far from attractive as possible – though that might have been the bits of mud and leaves and gravel that had been carried along with him.  John couldn’t even be sure what color the suit had been – and who wore a suit to a horse farm, anyway? 

 

“You must have a piano here somewhere, it’s quite obvious your orchestrations were done on one.  Where is it?”

 

John groaned.  There was nothing for it – he’d have to go in and track yet more mud and rain into the house.  Dammit all to hell.  He took a cautious step into the house, reached out, and luckily was able to snag the stranger by his sleeve, which allowed John to pull him back into the foyer.  “You don’t just walk into someone’s house dripping water and mud like you are,” he scolded the stranger.   “Strip down.”

 

The man’s eyes widened.  “I…sorry?”

 

John pointed down the hall to the right.  “There’s a bathroom at the end of the hall and towels in the linen closet.  I don’t think any of my clothes would fit you but there’s some sweats in the closet and those should do until yours are dry.”

 

The man just stared at John, as if he’d never before spoken a word of English in his life.

 

John sighed and turned back to the door.  If he came back to find the house a muddy, rain-soaked mess…well, he’d just make the stranger clean it up again.  Right before he kicked him out and sent him from whence he came.

 

“Where are you going?” blurted out the stranger.

 

“The horses,” said John.  “ _Some_ of us have to work instead of gallivanting around the country bothering honest-working people in the name of some toffee-nosed British idiot who can’t seem to understand the meaning of the words ‘leave me alone’.”

 

The dog was sitting against the wall in the foyer, where it wouldn’t track mud or rainwater into the house.  He looked up at John, calm and polite, but with a hint of rebuke in its expression, exactly as if it’d been taught better manners than the man currently in the house.   John gave it a glare as he slammed the door on the way out. 

 

But it was Bastian, still standing in the yard, with the water streaming down his flanks, which was the complete surprise; he stared at John reproachfully, as if John’s rudeness to the guest had been completely unjustified.

 

“What’s got into you?” asked John, as he took Bastian’s halter and began to lead him back to the barn.  Bastian swung his big head to look back at the house, and John snorted out a laugh.

 

“He’s fine, he’s getting cleaned up.  Lord preserve me from horses in love.”

 

Bastian snorted, as if the implication he might find the strange Brit in John’s house was in any way intriguing, let alone under consideration as a love-interest, and he tossed his head up as he followed John back to the stables.

 

It was another half hour before John finished putting the horses to bed, ensuring each had enough hay and water and that the stables were holding up well with the storm that didn’t seem to be letting up.  Calufrax seemed skittish, but otherwise all right.  John patted his neck and gave him some scritches and whispers in his ear, soothing sounds that seemed to settle the horse down, before he started to head back to the house himself.  If settling Calufrax down meant another ten minutes before he could check that the stranger wasn’t poking his nose into John’s business…well, that was fine.  It wasn’t as though he’d _asked_ for company.  Hospitality dictated that John give the man shelter from the storm.  Didn’t mean John had to like it, just meant he had to be courteous about it.

 

Leaving him alone in John’s house probably was about as discourteous as it could be.  The only reason John cared was because it was _his_ things in the house – well, some of them – and for some reason, he didn’t think the stranger had many barriers against personal space.  John itched to get back to him about as much as he itched to stay away.

 

The sooner he went back, the sooner he could convince the man that he had no intention of jumping on Sherlock Holmes’s say-so, and the sooner the man could return and tell it to Sherlock Holmes himself.  The sooner John could go back to his solitary existence, which suited him very well thank you very much, and John didn’t need or want interference from anyone who had ideas on how it might be improved.

 

The rain was freezing cold; it hit his face like tiny knives, cutting to the quick, hitting the ground and his coat so hard that it nearly bounced right back up.  He hoped the stranger was done with the shower; his coat was good and thick, but the wind was especially biting and John thought it’d take an hour of standing under a steaming hot spray before he could even be considered room temperature again. 

 

He didn’t mean to glance at the little car in the drive.  But all the same, he did.  It was fine, as far as he could tell; no danger of being swept away by flash flood to Texas, or even the far side of town.  Anything inside would surely be safe until morning.

 

John’s curiosity, however, wouldn’t.  He stepped over to the car, and peered inside, wondering what was so important that the man couldn’t let it sit in a car at risk of being swept away.  A briefcase, most likely.  Contracts for John to sign.  A tape recorder, maybe. 

 

The interior of the car was empty, as far as John could see.  Except for a dark shape on the backseat, gentle curves and a silver stripe running along the side.

 

John stared at it for a long moment, before trying the handle of the door.  It was unlocked. 

 

John cursed under his breath, opened the car, and reached for the object.

 

*

 

It had been tempting to poke around the little house as soon as John had gone back into the storm – tenacious little man, Sherlock thought, stubborn and insufferable and didn’t seem to have a creative bone in his body.  Sherlock wondered if he’d found the wrong John Watson, because surely _this_ one couldn’t have written the songs he’d been singing for six months now.  Not living in a house that might have been sound but had no soul to it – swept clean of debris but stained with other people’s lives. 

 

There might have been a song in that, thought Sherlock, and could nearly hear the twang in the background.  Oh, Christ, if he wasn’t careful, he’d find himself thinking more in country music than in classical, and he had fled the living room for the sanctity of the lavatory, thankful to find a toilet instead of an outhouse.

 

(An outhouse, complete with Sears Roebuck catalog and cut-out moon on the door, would not have shocked him.)

 

He shucked the suit and shoes and pants, peeled off the socks that were plastered with rain and mud to his feet, and kicked the lot into the corner, leaving a smear of mud on the tiled floor.  Did John Watson own a washing machine, or did he wash his clothes in the creek that was surely out back?  And if he asked the little man when he came back in, would he receive a straight answer or would he be chucked out on his ear?  Sherlock was almost tempted to ask, just to find out how far he could press the man before he choked, but there was something about the calluses he’d felt on Watson’s fingers that made him think _pressing_ him was a bad idea. 

 

The calluses, rough and sharp against Sherlock’s hand, had made his skin tingle and burn, leaving sparks in their wake.  Sherlock decided not to think about calluses any longer.

 

The shower refused to get anything more than warm despite Sherlock’s best efforts.  He turned the hot water all the way up, and the cold all the way down, and still it barely passed tepid.  The stall itself was clean, but stained with years of use and various colored soaps; there was a bright green residue on the soap dish that didn’t bear close inspection. 

 

Despite the temperature, it felt good to wash the rest of the grime and grit off his skin, send it swirling down the drain in a dizzying grey stripe.  There was only one kind of shampoo in the stall with him, and no conditioner, but the mud was caked in his hair and it was either that, or nothing.  Sherlock took the less of the two evils, and washed his hair with the cheap orange stuff, smelling more of chemicals than any reasonably pleasant alternative.  It took nearly an entire handful of the stuff before his hair squeaked.  Sherlock ran his hands through the curls and sighed as his fingers caught on the snarls and tangles, his scalp already tingling in protest at the lack of quality hair-care products.

 

It would have to do.  Only a few hours, at best, and then he could get right back into his car and drive and drive and drive until he found the nearest town with a half-decent pharmacy, where he’d find _something_ that would be partially suitable and could fix his hair back to something resembling normal.

 

It was a good half hour when he emerged from the lavatory, a threadbare towel wrapped around his waist, his hair dripping lines of water down his bare back.  He peered down the hall to the main part of the house; still empty, except for the dog, who was still mostly in the foyer, its head resting on the hall as it looked down at Sherlock.  The dog picked up its head, and Sherlock could hear the _thump-thump_ of its tail against the floor. 

 

He turned and went into the next room, and proceeded to look for something to wear, before settling on a t-shirt, a pair of pajama pants that were several inches too short, and a threadbare blue robe – was anything in the house _not_ threadbare?   The robe would at least serve to keep him warm in the cool house.  He was surprised to have found that much; the closet had been nothing but jeans and plain or corduroy shirts; pants folded neatly in a drawer with military precision, socks rolled up by color and tossed haphazardly to the side. 

 

In the very back of the closet, a suit-bag that did not contain a suit, but a series of dress uniforms, tan and green and all exceedingly ugly.  It was shoved to the back, zipper to the wall, and Sherlock was careful to replace it the same as he found it.

 

Outside, the storm continued to rage, the rain beating hard against the roof and windows.  The wind howled and shrieked as Sherlock padded barefoot through the house, down the hall where the dog still laid sentry, and into the little living room.

 

The house did not belong to Watson; what was only hinted on the exterior was blatantly obvious on the interior.  Someone had lived here, once, chosen pretty curtains and comfortable chairs, convenient tables and serviceable tools for the fireplace that looked largely ignored.  But those things were two decades old at a minimum.  They were clean and well-kept, but hardly bore evidence of recent loving.  The only pictures that adorned the walls were of people who looked nothing like Watson; the only books on the shelves were things Watson would never have read (if the dust that accumulated on their spines was any indication). 

 

Even the dog didn’t seem to belong, for all that it looked perfectly at home in the foyer.  There was no dog bed, no folded-over blanket on which it could sleep without shedding hair over everything.  In the kitchen, there was no dog dish or bowl of water.  No dog toys or bones hidden behind a chair leg for later play.  Remove the man and the dog, and the house might have been left abandoned twenty years previously.

 

Which left the question – _what had Sherlock deduced incorrectly_?  The man was military, medical, displaced on a horse farm in the middle of nowhere, with a dog who had claimed him rather than the other way around.  The discrepancy in what Sherlock saw and what John had admitted was grating.

 

Sherlock paced the room.  The wind continued to howl its refrain outside; his mind was swirling with it.  The rain drummed a harsh heartbeat on the house.  His fingers itched, his skin prickled with irritation from the dry soap he’d used.  What was taking Watson so long?  How hard was it to put horses to bed?   What was he _doing_ , singing them a lullaby?  Reading them a bedtime story?  Giving them a last drink of water and perhaps a quick trip to the loo? 

 

When would the man _return_ , so that Sherlock could sit him down at the infernally out-of-tune piano that was surely secreted somewhere in the house, and clear up the musical confusion in his confounded song, and maybe determine what it was he had incorrectly determined about him so that the mystery was solved?  So that Sherlock could get _away_?  The sooner he was able to leave Oklahoma, the sooner he could….

 

Return to Mycroft waiting for him in Nashville, remembered Sherlock, and cursed to himself.  What on earth was it about John Watson that made _Mycroft_ the more desirable companion?

 

No, not desirable.  Terrible word.  God knew why he thought of _that_ word to describe anyone.  Tolerable.  Less annoying.  Vaguely preferable in that at least with Mycroft, he knew where he stood.  John Watson, and his seeming indifference to Sherlock, itched under Sherlock’s skin in a way that made him feel disconcerted and strange.  When would the man return so that Sherlock could look at him in the light and deduce him properly, try to figure out what made him tick?

 

Sherlock tried to look out the window; he could barely see a thing in the dark velvet night.  The cold, however, seeped through the glass, making his skin prickle.  He wrapped the robe around himself, and felt somewhat warmer for it.

 

The dog let out a bark, which was followed close behind by the door opening, letting in a burst of cold wind and rain and the form of John Watson, huddled into his coat, with his hat hanging low on his head.  The door’s slam was like a shot; Sherlock stood straight up from the window.

 

The dog jumped to its feet, wagging its tail furiously, tongue rolling out the side of its mouth.  But Watson didn’t appear to notice; he turned his back to the house as he hung up his hat to drip on the floor before carefully undoing his coat.  He cradled something close to his chest, and set it on the chair near the door instead of sitting in it himself to remove his boots with the jack. 

 

Dark leather, curved, silver clasps shining with rain drops.  Sherlock caught his breath.  “My violin.”

 

“And about that,” said Watson grimly.  “Why’d you let me go on like you weren’t Sherlock Holmes himself?”

 

“What makes you so sure of yourself now?”

 

“I doubt a music executive flies around the country carrying a fiddle with him just because he happens to work for a fiddle player.  World ain’t that small.  But I can’t think why Sherlock Holmes himself would bother to come out here just to find me.”

 

“You didn’t answer my letters.”  Sherlock crossed the room and took up the case; the treated leather was slick with damp, but hardly waterlogged.  With the rain falling as hard as it was, Watson would have had to keep it under his coat or it would have been far more damaged.  Sherlock carried the case back into the house, set it on the coffee table and clicked it open. 

 

His violin, lay inside, tucked safely in the velvet.  Apart from a bit of damp fabric around the edges of the case, it was perfectly fine. 

 

“I didn’t answer your letters because they didn’t need answering,” said Watson somewhere behind him, but Sherlock couldn’t have cared less what the man thought.  He lifted the violin out of the case and began to check the tuning. 

 

“I asked you a question in every one of them.  Of course they needed answering.”  Sherlock frowned at his violin as he adjusted the tension in the strings. 

 

“Look, I wrote the song the way I wrote it.  If you don’t like it, you don’t have to sing it that way.  Or at all.  You don’t be needing my permission to do whatever you like to it.”

 

Sherlock winced.  “Is it truly necessary to speak that way?  ‘Don’t be needing!’  As though you were raised as far from civilization as possible.”

 

There was silence from the other half of the room.  “Excuse me?”

 

“The proper way of phrasing is ‘you don’t need’.  One hardly needs to throw in extra words to make their point.” 

 

“You’re a bit of an ass, aren’t you?”

 

“So I have been told, yes.”  That was one string done; Sherlock moved on to the next.  After a moment, he heard the shuffling that indicated Watson was standing.

 

“You know, most people wouldn’t think it was a good idea to insult the man who’s giving them shelter from the storm.”

 

“But you won’t throw me out,” said Sherlock.  “You’re much too curious why I’m here.”

 

“You told me why you’re here.”

 

“Good, then you’ll have already been thinking of how to fix it.  The music is completely wrong for the lyrics, Watson.  Far too much _twang_.”

 

“It’s country music.  There’s supposed to be twang.”

 

“ _That_ is hardly my fault.  The song deserves something elevated – the music you’ve given it makes it sound as if it’s simply another forlorn, lost-love ballad that might be played on the radio.”

 

“I’m sorry, isn’t that the point?”

 

“I’m talking about something _grander_ , John Watson.  This is not a country-rock-pop five-minutes-on-the-chart song.  At least, it might not be if you’d be willing to give it the care and attention it deserves.  Now, the opening chords—”

 

Watson stared at him.  “You honestly want to rewrite the music _now?_   I’m soaked to the skin and covered in mud!”

 

Sherlock looked up from his violin.  “Well…yes.  The sooner I am done, the sooner I can get out of your pajamas and go home.”

 

Watson threw his hands in the air.  “I’m going to take a shower.  You write whatever fool music you want to write and when I come out, you can tell me how you’re singing my song.”

 

Sherlock listened to John Watson stomp down the hall to the little bedroom; the dog, however, crept into the living room and sat at Sherlock’s feet, looking up expectantly and without a hint of reproach in its eyes.  In fact, it looked far more interested in what Sherlock was doing than its owner had been.

 

A bit of a turn-up to have the _dog_ be the only person in awe of him.  John Watson was indeed a curious case.

 

Didn’t mean he wanted to stay any longer than necessary.  Even with Mycroft waiting on the other side with the expected retributions and rebukes and reprisals.  _Sherlock, it’s time to end this charade and come home.  Mummy has sent me expressly to tell you that we are no longer amused by this…dalliance_.

 

As if he were slumming in the back of beyond with inappropriate companions and performing unspeakable acts of depravity.

 

Then again....

 

He could hear the water rushing through the pipes to the shower in the back; John Watson, washing himself clean of the mud and the rain.  John Watson, who buried himself in a horse farm in the middle of the Oklahoma wilderness, which in turn was in the middle of the American wasteland.  Of middling height, middling weight, probably middling intelligence.  Buried his own talent for writing in middle-of-the-road lyrics and middle-of-the-road music. 

 

Sherlock needed John’s song.  And for that, he needed John Watson.  And he hadn’t driven eight hours just to turn back around and tell Mycroft he’d driven for nothing.  Christ, wouldn’t Mycroft love that.

 

Sherlock lifted the violin to his chin and ran the bow along the strings, testing the notes carefully.  He ought to start playing the music as Watson had written it.  The man was clever enough in his own way, he’d surely hear the wrong notes under the spray of the water and start thinking about how to fix them.

 

Yes. That was what Sherlock _ought_ to be playing.

 

But the rain continued to pelt down outside, a steady drumbeat against the windows and the roof.  The water in the pipes was a soft buzz of rushing water.  The dog sighed at his feet, and somewhere in the back of the house, a man stood under the spray of a shower, the water running down his skin. 

 

Sherlock closed his eyes and drew the bow down, and when it played, it wasn’t country music at all.

 


	6. Wanting More

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title and some of the quoted lyrics are from Alannah Myles’s [Black Velvet](http://youtu.be/tkXNEmtf9tk), which isn’t technically country, but is still awesome. It’s the song that got me thinking about what would happen when John and Sherlock finally got in a room together, so credit where credit is due. Also credit to Twitter’s Vodik, who requested a Fiddle-verse drabble with the prompt “black velvet” waaaay back in November for the Advent Calendar Drabbles, and had to wait this long for me to produce something. She/He probably doesn’t even remember doing it, but if so, I hope they like what came out of it!
> 
> Other songs in this chapter include Frank Sinatra’s [My Way](http://youtu.be/ePs6bHsQx6A), and a couple written by John Watson, a.k.a. me. Yeah, I lied when I said I wasn’t going to do that too often.
> 
> Happy news: two chapters in a row! But bad news: this will be the last chapter for a while – I know what happens next, I’m just having some trouble getting it down!

John could hear the music as soon as he turned off the shower.  He hadn’t realized that there were any classical radio stations close enough for reception.  A quick glance out the window confirmed that the rain continued to fall, although it seemed to have lessened in intensity and was now more snow and sleet than rain itself.  It wouldn’t accumulate – John didn’t _think_ – but it would surely be nasty on the roads for a good twelve more hours.

 

In short, Sherlock Holmes was better off staying where he was. 

 

He dressed quickly – the little bedroom was cold, and the last few minutes of his shower, when the hot water ran out, hadn’t helped to keep him warm.  His fingers fumbled a little as he buttoned the flannel shirt over the long-sleeved Henley.  The music kept playing, soft and gentle, matching the weather outside the window, before it picked up speed, as if it was trying to hurry him along. 

 

_Come along, come along, come along_ , the notes chirped, sharp and sweet and seductive, and John felt himself pulled along by them, down the hall as he finished tucking the shirt into his jeans, padding silently in his socks. 

 

He was halfway down the hall before he realized the music wasn’t coming from the radio – that it was a violin solo, surely played by Sherlock Holmes.  He paused, trying to reconcile the music he heard from his living room with the music he remembered from the CD Mary had lent him.  The classical, haunting tones of a violin to the rollicking, rolling, whimsical flurry of a fiddle. 

 

And yet – he could hear it, deep under the smooth tones, the long notes being drawn one by one from the instrument.  There was something under the surface, the quick beat of a heart that was aching to burst into a frenzy of tones.  The country was there, if John listened close enough.

 

Or maybe that was the distant thunder he heard.  Or it was the way that the music seemed to echo it, wrap itself around the pitter-patter of the rain on the roof, turning the storm into song.  The entire world seemed to be musical; John could almost feel it in his fingertips.

 

The dog thumped its tail against the floor when John stepped into the room, and looked up at him with a doggy grin.  He shuffled himself up to sit next to John, leaning against his leg.  Sherlock, his back to John, kept playing, and John stood in the doorway, idly scratching the dog’s head as he watched. 

 

The man moved with the music, swayed back and forth, so deeply into the notes he played that John doubted he was even aware that anyone else existed.  The dressing gown lay abandoned on a nearby chair; John’s shirt was almost too big for Sherlock’s thin frame; it twisted and pulled as Sherlock moved with the violin, accentuating the lines of his back before hiding them in folds of fabric.  The pajama pants were loose around his hips, falling just enough to show an expanse of pale skin where the dip of his spine turned into the slow rise of his buttocks. 

 

Sherlock might have played for hours; John might have let him.  But instead, he turned, just enough for the light to catch the red, raw flesh on the back of his hand as he drew the bow out from his body, so graceful he might have been dancing.

 

John spoke before he thought, or he might not have spoken at all.  “You’re bleeding!”

 

The music came to a screeching halt as Sherlock slid the bow back down the strings, and spun to stare at John.  His expression was confused for a half second, before settling into a scowl. 

 

“You were listening.”

 

“It’s my house,” said John, and he walked up to and took Sherlock’s bow hand in his, lifting it up to examine it closer.  “Must have scraped it raw on the gravel outside.  I’ll get the disinfectant.”

 

Sherlock jerked out of John’s grasp.  “It’s fine.  I cleaned it with soap and water, or don’t you remember the orders to shower?”

 

“You scraped the skin right off clear to the bone – it ought to be wrapped up.”

 

“I can’t play if it’s wrapped up,” Sherlock snapped, and turned his back to John, resetting the bow on the strings, as if to continue playing – but he didn’t make a single note.  “I also can’t play if you’re here.”

 

“Disinfectant’s in the next room,” said John mildly.  “That’s the best I can do you for the time being.”

 

The kitchen was even colder than the bedroom, despite the proximity to the comfortably warm living room.  John looked at the coffeemaker for a moment before deciding to start it up anyway – he didn’t doubt neither of them would fall asleep anytime soon even without the caffeine, and besides, he was still feeling the chill from the rain. 

 

The coffeemaker ticked away while he pulled the first aid kit down from the top of the fridge.  Disinfectant, bandages, medical tape – all lined up on the table, along with the sugar and milk.  John wondered if the man was hungry, and then wondered why he even cared.  It wasn’t as though he’d _asked_ for company.

 

_I taught you better than that_ , he could hear his mother scolding him, and he huffed back a smile, and went to find the cookies in the pantry. 

 

It was only when the coffee began to drip into the pot that John realized that Sherlock hadn’t started playing again.  He stared at the stream of coffee, frowning, and then went to check on him.

 

Sherlock stood exactly as John had left him, as if he’d frozen in place.  John watched him for a moment, the rise and fall of his shoulders as he breathed.

 

“Huh,” said John.

 

“Are you still here?” asked Sherlock, wearily, as if it wasn’t John who lived there.

 

“Didn’t think you actually _meant_ it,” said John.  “Anyway, I started coffee.  Come into the kitchen so I can treat your hand, the light’s better in there.”

 

“My hand is—“

 

“I don’t really care what you think your hand is,” said John, and he heard his voice grow short and crisp, tones he hadn’t used in years, since he wore the uniforms that still hung in the back of the closet.  He wondered how much snooping Sherlock had done while he’d been alone in the house, and then decided he didn’t much care.  When he saw Sherlock’s back stiffen, and his chin go up, it only made his tone worse.  “You’ll come in and let me treat your hand or I’ll kick you out and that’ll be the last song of mine I let Mike send to you.”

 

“You need the royalties.”

 

“Won’t matter if you can’t use your hand to play them properly.”

 

Sherlock turned around and let his violin hang at his side.  He pointed the bow to John.  “There is _nothing_ wrong with the way I play.  There is _everything_ wrong with the way you write music.”

 

“If you say so,” said John mildly.  “Are you going to let me bandage your hand or not?”

 

“You’ll listen to me play your infernal song, and see that you don’t agree there’s something wrong with it.”

 

“Maybe the way _you_ play it,” countered John, and went back into the kitchen.  He raised his voice a bit so Sherlock could hear him through the door, now swinging back and forth.  “How do you take your coffee?”

 

“I play your song as well as can be expected, with _that_ orchestration.”

 

John rolled his eyes and reached for the coffee pot to pour out the coffee.  “I don’t _write_ orchestration.  I write _music_.”

 

The sound of the door swinging back and forth caught on itself, exactly as if someone had decided to follow John in.  John grinned to himself, though it was short-lived.

 

“Terribly.  You write music _terribly_.”

 

John slammed the coffee pot back on its plate and carried the steaming mugs to the table.  “Stop singing my songs, then.”

 

He set the mug of coffee in front of Sherlock, who peered at it as if he’d never seen anything like it.

 

“It’s _coffee_.  Like tea, but stronger.”

 

“Please never make that comparison again,” said Sherlock firmly, and reached for the sugar. 

 

John caught his hand instead and pulled it in to examine the skin.  It was rubbed raw where it wasn’t rubbed away entirely; tiny little gashes, with the skin hanging, snarled and ugly.  The blood had already coagulated at the worst places, and the cuts appeared to be clean.  John noted Sherlock’s brief wince as he brushed his thumb over the abrasions.

 

“How much flexibility do you have?” he asked quietly.

 

Sherlock moved his fingers; not enough to form even a loose fist, but clearly enough to at least hold the bow.  John reached for the disinfectant and began dabbing it onto the skin gently.  He heard the sharp intake of breath from Sherlock at the sting, and noted the tense stiffness as he tried to keep still.

 

“You’ll live,” said John shortly.

 

“If I died of such a wound, I would question your competency as a doctor,” said Sherlock dryly. 

 

John glanced up at him briefly.  Sherlock’s face didn’t seem to be joking, but perhaps this was British wit.  “I’m not a doctor.”

 

“Of course.  Army medic.  Trained in medical matters but not possessing a university degree stating that fact.  Particularly knowledgeable about combat wounds and their treatment.  This is far below your usual pay scale, Lieutenant.”

 

He said the title oddly, with a _lef_ instead of a _lieu_.  British pronunciation, no doubt, all the better to remind him of…something.  John didn’t particularly care what.  When someone took care to expose their differences, it wasn’t usually meant to be a compliment. 

 

“Captain,” John corrected him.  “Thought you said there were too many John Watsons to look me up.”

 

“Thought you didn’t read the letters,” countered Sherlock, and sucked in his breath as John pressed the disinfectant to a particularly bad patch of skin.  “Obvious.  Most people wouldn’t bother with disinfectant for a simple scrape.”

 

“Most people don’t travel halfway across the country to ask a question.”

 

“Most people answer their letters.”

 

“Most people recognize a non-answer _is_ an answer,” said John shortly.  “I told you before, Mr Holmes.  I don’t rightly care what you do to my songs.  Sing ‘em, shout ‘em, burn ‘em in effigy.”

 

Sherlock frowned.  “Most composers—“

 

“In case you ain’t realized, I ain’t _most people_ ,” snapped John, and when Sherlock’s eyebrows went up, he turned away and reached for the bandages. 

 

“Interesting,” mused Sherlock, and then went silent as John began to wrap the bandage loosely around his hand.  Tight enough that it wouldn’t slip, but loose enough that he could still change his grip as necessary, to better hold the violin’s bow.

 

The suspense was too much.  “What?” asked John finally.

 

“Your use of the colloquial term ‘ain’t’.  Of course, the etymology of that word is really the curious thing.  I’m sure you’re aware that as a nonstandard contraction for the verb _to be not_ – though it has also been used for the verbs _to have not_ and _to do not_ – it is not considered to be proper English, though it is still widely used in various dialects of the English-speaking world, to include various rural parts of America and certain communities in Britain.  And of course those dialects are used primarily by the poorer segments of their societies, in which case the use of the term _ain’t_ is practically a calling card, if you will, of community pride.  A way to set them apart by a common language, and remind themselves that they are, in fact different.  What you may not realize, however, is that the term was considered proper enough that it was in use by even the upper echelons of society as little as a hundred and fifty years ago.  So by using the term, in an effort to remind others of your perceived unworthiness, you are merely reminding us that at one time, we valued the same ideals.”

 

John had long since stopped wrapping Sherlock’s hand, and was instead staring at him.  He opened his mouth once or twice as if to say something, and then shook his head and tied the ends of the bandage together, before tucking them under the wrappings to leave it neat and unlikely to unwrap itself.

 

“Keep it dry,” he said gruffly.  “It _ain’t_ going to heal properly if you don’t, and I _ain’t_ got a lot of bandages to rewrap it, ‘specially if the rain _ain’t_ going to stop any time soon, which I don’t think it _ain’t_ going to do anytime soon.”

 

Sherlock snorted.  “That wasn’t even the proper way of _using_ the term.”

 

John glared at him.  “You’re an interfering bastard who pokes his nose where it _ain’t_ wanted.  You know that?”

 

“I believe you’re deliberately using the word in excess to try my patience, in hopes that I will give up on the notion of playing your song to you, and instead brave the weather and leave you alone.”

 

“Is it working?”

 

“No.”

 

Sherlock reached for the sugar bowl, and dropped two spoonfuls into his mug before stirring it as noisily as he could manage, without looking at John once.

 

John waited until Sherlock had picked up the mug – carefully holding its weight in his good hand, keeping it steady using the fingertips of his bandaged hand, which was a good indication of exactly how much use of that hand he really did not have.  “You aren’t going to leave until you play that song, are you?”

 

“Or the storm lets up.  I suppose you could wait me out, but we must do something to pass the time.”

 

John barked out a laugh.  “You enjoy being this stubborn, don’t you?”

 

Sherlock snorted lightly into his coffee.  “You should meet my brother.” 

 

“He as bad as you?”

 

“Only when he is wrong but thinks he is right, which is always.  The rest of the time he is much, much worse.”

 

The image of John’s father sprang to mind: short and stocky with wrinkled hands and a threadbare hat on his head, sitting atop of a rusting, obnoxiously smoky tractor which refused to budge an inch, despite the volley of curses and kicks in its direction.  John smiled wryly, remembering.  “I know what you mean.”

 

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, but said nothing as he sipped his coffee.  John drummed his fingers on the table, almost impatient, his conscience at war with his intense longing for solitude.

 

“Look,” John said finally, “the storm won’t be over until morning.  I can give you a pillow and a few blankets, you can sleep on the couch – not the most comfortable but it’ll do in a pinch – and you can go in the morning.  I don’t care what you do until then – play my song, your song, or the devil’s – but I don’t have to hear it, and I don’t have to tell you how to fix it, if you don’t think I can write a song right in the first place. I’m sorry you came out here for nothing, Mr Holmes, but maybe the experience will teach you something about taking a hint.”

 

“You won’t help,” said Sherlock flatly.

 

“No.”  John’s tone was firm and final, or as firm and final as he could make it. 

 

“You wrote the song.”

 

“I wrote it.  It’s up to you to make it yours.”

 

“The way you wrote it doesn’t _work_.”

 

“Then that’s _your_ job, isn’t it?” countered John.  “The way I wrote it worked for _me_ , if it doesn’t work for you, I can’t do anything about that, can I?  The only thing I _can_ do is give you a blanket and a pillow and directions on how to get back to the highway.”

 

Sherlock lowered the mug slowly to the table.  “If you insist.”

 

“I do,” said John firmly, and took a swig from his own coffee, black, because he’d be damned if he punctuated such a speech by pausing to pour in the creamer.

 

“Well, then,” said Sherlock.  “It would appear I have been told.”

 

“Yes, you have,” said John between gulps.

 

“In that case,” said Sherlock, as he pushed his chair noisily away from the table, “it would appear that I do not have a great deal of time.  If you will excuse me.”

 

But Sherlock didn’t wait for John’s dismissal – instead, he swept out of the kitchen and back into the living room, and a few moments later, John heard the music start up again. 

 

Not the classical strains from before, however – nor John’s own song, but something else entirely.  It took John a moment to recognize it, and when he did, he laughed before he could stop himself.  It was perhaps the most mocking rendition of the song ever played on a violin – as if Sherlock was both admiring John’s stubbornness, and faulting him for it at the same time.

 

_Regrets, I've had a few;_

_But then again, too few to mention._

 

But the point was made, and the audacity of the man playing it, rather than further annoying John, just made him laugh in amazement.

_I did what I had to do_

_And saw it through without exception._

 

The music continued as John cleared the table, washed the mugs and the almost empty coffee pot and left everything to dry in the drain. 

 

_I planned each charted course;_

_Each careful step along the byway,_

_But more, much more than this,_

_I did it my way._

 

The song ended with an expressive and disdainful flourish; John resisted the urge to applaud, and instead rattled the dishes as set the last one in the drain.  He thought that punctuated his response just as well, particularly when Sherlock went straight into a new song – something John didn’t quite recognize, but was frantic and furious in a way that showed Sherlock’s hand rather more than the man probably would have wanted to admit.

 

The dog sat neatly at John’s heels, looking up with a hopeful expression.  John glanced at the clock and shook his head.

 

“At least someone in the house is hungry,” he said, and dumped a can of dog food into one of the larger mixing bowls.  He set it on the floor next to the water dish which seemed to have taken up residence in the kitchen, and stayed crouched on the floor, balancing precariously on his toes as he watched as the dog chowed down, its tail wagging happily.

 

“The kid can play, I’ll give him that,” John said to the dog softly, not wanting to be overheard.  “Don’t think I’ve ever heard _that_ song on a fiddle, not so’s I’d have recognized it, anyhow.  Or with that particular meaning ascribed to it.  Still don’t know how he started playing country, though.  He _looks_ country, I ‘spose, but he don’t sound it.”

 

The music shifted into something almost as familiar, and even less contemporary – something classical, something John remembered from his childhood, his mother on the piano during long summer evenings, when all the work was done for the day, and she had a moment to be herself, and not anyone else’s dogsbody. 

 

He could see her, sitting at the light brown upright, flanked on either side by long windows looking out onto the yard that stretched to the vegetable garden.  Her hair, most of it still pulled back in the bun, tendrils falling on her cheeks.  Talking to herself under her breath as she played, “C, then D, oh that’s a good stretch, Joanne, you missed that note.”  The music might stutter at first, particularly if she hadn’t had a chance to play in a while (and playing often was rare) but then it would smooth out as her fingers remembered their cues, and by the time the front door slammed with the arrival of her husband and the return to daily life, the music had flowed over the house, soothing and comforting and otherworldly all at once. 

 

John found himself humming the notes along with the violin, remembering.  The dog had finished eating, and was sitting expectantly, though John wasn’t sure what he expected if it wasn’t more food.  He shook the memory from his shoulders and stood up, his legs aching from having stayed in the uncomfortable position for too long.  He almost hobbled to the sink, washed out the dog’s bowl, and left it with the mugs.

 

The music had shifted again when he walked back into the living room.  Something John didn’t quite recognize.  Something country, at least, but the fiddle still seemed to retain the long, smooth notes of the violin as it played what surely was a mournful ballad.  John leaned against the doorway and listened, watching as Sherlock continued to play.  When he stopped, halfway through the song, to fix the tuning on one of his strings, John spoke.

 

“New song?”

 

“Not yours,” said Sherlock shortly.  “And yes.”

 

“Sounds good.”

 

“Like I said.  Not yours.”

 

John let the insult roll down his back and went to sit on the chair near the lamp.  “I’m just going to sit and read for a bit.  As it’s my house.”

 

“Not your house,” said Sherlock as he placed the fiddle back under his chin.  “Do shut up.  You’re lowering the IQ of the room.”

 

“Thought that’d be the dog.”

 

“The dog,” said Sherlock icily, “knows to come in out of the rain.”

 

John wanted to chuckle, but he had the idea that Sherlock might have taken it as a compliment.  Instead, he reached for the newspaper and shook it open, and began to read.  Sherlock continued to play, continuing to switch between violin and fiddle, between country and classical, and even other genres, songs that John did and did not recognize.  Sometimes he’d play a song through from the start; sometimes he’d stop halfway and switch to something else, sometimes he played less than a bar or two, barely enough for John to place it in his mind.

 

Because despite trying not to pay attention, John heard every note.  When he knew the words, they flowed through his head.  He heard the background orchestration, imagined the time and place he’d heard it first.  When the version he knew best was the concert version, he heard the roar of the crowd.

_Up in Memphis the music's like a heatwave_

_White lightning, bound to drive you wild_

 

Sherlock would have been interesting in concert, he thought.  Under the bright lights, sweat glistening on his brow, hair damp with sweat instead of from a shower.  John closed his eyes and let his mind wander, thinking about the way Sherlock would have moved on a stage, leaned into the microphone and sang, his lips nearly touching the rounded head, and somehow these images became mixed up with the idea of Sherlock, wet from the shower spray, soap bubbles sliding down his pale skin, hands somewhere below, wrapped around the microphone, mouth open in a wordless cry.

_The way he moved, it was a sin, so sweet and true_

_Always wanting more, he'd leave you longing for_

_Fuck_ , when John realized, and he lowered the newspaper to cover his lap.  He glanced at Sherlock, still facing the window, seemingly intent on playing for the rest of the night, and clearly unconcerned about his audience. 

 

“I’m going to bed,” said John shortly, and he stood up swiftly and turned to walk back to the bedroom.  “Blankets and pillows in the hall closet, you can see to them yourself.”

 

He didn’t wait for a ‘good-night’, but he didn’t think he’d have gotten one, anyway.  The dog padded along behind him, clearly delighted to head to bed even with the early hour.  As soon as John had closed the door behind him, the dog jumped up on the bed as if it were his due.

 

“Oh, no,” said John firmly, and shoved the dog off.  It landed with an indignant yelp, and any guilt that John might have felt in response was shoved firmly to the side. There were some things that didn’t warrant an audience, even if that audience wasn’t likely to tattle. 

 

It didn’t take long to shuck the jeans or the boxers, and John didn’t even bother with his shirts.  He fell backwards on the bed, and rested one trembling hand to his cock, already mostly hard and warm to the touch.  His breath caught in his throat; just that much was more than he’d had in months.  Shivering with cold and desire, John was almost afraid to move his hand – but his hand moved as if it had a mind of its own.  It probably did, or it was John’s subconscious at work, denied long enough. 

 

There was one brief pang of guilt for what he was doing, one flash of memory of his father’s disappointed sigh, and then it was gone, as fleeting as any sense of shame John might have felt.  His hand moved rapidly up and down the shaft, which grew thicker and hotter in his hand as he worked it, twisting just at the tip, spreading his fingers wide at the base to cover the tightly curled pubic hair, brushing his fingers along his balls.

 

_Don’t think don’t think don’t move your mouth like that, God, your whole body the way it swayed with the music, your neck open and exposed, the curls of your hair, your eyes closed, your hand loosely curled around the neck of the violin, oh God, yes, just like…like…fuck!_

 

He gasped as he came, the high note in the back of his throat that might have been a whine if he’d been allowed to voice it.  It wasn’t much – a thin sort of cool relief that settled over his skin, and yet his heart still pounded as if he’d run a marathon, and his mind was blissfully and comfortingly blank as he lay shivering on the bed.  All the world around him was a buzz of static. 

 

_You sail right in as if you own the place_

_With mud on your boots and blood on your face_

_You act like the king of the human race_

_Expect the rest of us to fall into your space_

_You don’t bother with the niceties of thanks and please_

_Did you think I’ll fall in supplication on my knees?_

_I’d rather boot you out onto the tallest trees_

_Or drop you overboard into the deepest seas_

The words floated in, fully formed, and John laughed as he ran over them, throwing his head back against the pillow, his fingers still holding his cock gently.

 

_You could’ve warned me when you came through_

_‘Bout your self-centered, narrow-minded point of view_

_Are you the effin’ prince, am I the dragon you gonna…slew?_

_I should’ve known your game before I looked at you._

 

The rhymes were silly and more than ridiculous, but John felt the familiar bubble under his skin of more words ready to burst through – but before a single one could emerge, writing themselves to a cocky, up-tempo beat, there was a break in the rain and something else crept in.

 

The sounds of a fiddle, working over a series of notes, one after the other, before stopping in a frustrated squeak as the bow was drawn against the strings sideways. The words and music that John had been composing shattered as the fiddle in the other room took over, the music beating up against John’s head, and he groaned and rubbed his face, wanting to ignore it, but his mind latched on to the music that was instead of the music that wasn’t, and followed along.

 

It wasn’t even a moment before John realized that he recognized it – the tone, the pattern, the change in the notes.  It was his song, the one he’d written months before and sent off to Mike along with half a dozen others, written in the fields with Remy and the dog at his side.  He hadn’t thought much about it, other than thinking it was probably the best of a lackluster bunch, but here it was, being played for him in his living room by an over-tall overly pompous dark-haired jerk who claimed it was better than it was if only John could fix what was wrong with it.

 

_I don’t even know what’s wrong with me, much less what I write_ , though John, and listened as Sherlock started playing the song again, the way the music flowed and then…didn’t.  The notes weren’t wrong.  The words weren’t wrong.  But somehow, they were.

 

The music shifted into something else entirely.  Not classical, exactly, though it sounded similar – some movie score, thought John, but the music trickled down the hall in a smooth and pleasing way, and John found his toes curling up as he listened. 

 

And then the music shifted _again_ , back to John’s song, and this time it was better, somehow.  The notes not quite changed, but the way they were played did, and now John remembered the words.

 

_You’re the rocks that are laughing when the water flows down_

_You’re the wind that whistles when there’s not a sound_

 

It was better.  It wasn’t quite right, but it was _better_ , somehow, and Sherlock kept playing until it wasn’t better, and then the song changed again in a screech to something else entirely.  Something fast and furious and threatening, and John could picture Sherlock, his entire body curled around the violin as he played, his arm jerking back and forth and the bow moving so quickly that it was a blur.  His face, eyes screwed shut and mouth a thin line of concentration, his brows knitted together, his cheeks flushed with effort….

 

Probably better not to think about it, really.

 

John swung his legs out from the bed and pulled off the rest of his clothes, now sticky and cold and growing stiff already.  He tossed them into the corner and reached for his pajamas before remembering they were being worn by the fiddle player in the living room, and _that_ was _really_ not a good thought to have while he was naked and cold in his bedroom.  John found a pair of sweats and pulled them on instead.

 

The song he’d been composing was…not gone, but quiet now.  He could still sense it, in the back of his mind, simply biding its time to come out.  Well, that was something, at least.  John lay on his back in the dark, staring up at the ceiling, and listened as the music in the living room switched back and forth between familiar and not-quite-right, each time shifting a little, this way and that, entirely changeable based on what Sherlock played in between efforts.

 

Better, sometimes.  Not perfect, but improving.  Workable. 

 

_You’re the soft grass covering the cold hard ground_

 

John wondered how long he’d be at it.  How long he’d _been_ at it.  He hadn’t seen music sheets. 

 

He hadn’t seen…good God.  The man had _memorized_ John’s song.  And all the rest of them.  He’d been playing for…hours, already.  It had already been half an hour since John had started listening in earnest, if the clock by the bed was right.  How long did Sherlock intend to continue?

 

_You’re the only one I want to have around_

_So why can’t I love you_

 

The music ended in a fantastic screech, much more frustrated and angry than any that had come before it, and this time, it wasn’t followed immediately by something else.  The house fell into an uneasy, tense silence, and John strained as he listened, wondering what Sherlock would play next.

 

Nothing.  A few footsteps, a bang or two as a closet door was opened and slammed shut (or the front door opened and a recalcitrant violin thrown out), and then…nothing.

 

The rain continued outside, a soft staccato drumbeat against the windows.  John could hear the howl of the wind, more gentle now than it had been, the creaks and groans of the house as it settled for the night.  The dog in the corner, woofing and whimpering in its sleep.  He imagined he could hear Sherlock’s breathing in the outer room as he fell into a restless slumber, but John lay awake, his body feeling more awake and alive every moment, waiting to spring out of bed and into action, pulling him upwards.

 

_Shouldn’t I, shouldn’t I, shouldn’t I_

_Shouldn’t I love you?_

 

“Fuck,” whispered John, and left the bed.  The clock blinked 1:00 at him – how it’d gotten so late, John didn’t know – and he padded silently through the dark house, through the living room where Sherlock was a blanket-covered mound on the couch.  John didn’t even glance at him.  He was asleep, of course he was.

 

He opened the door in the kitchen, and went up the stairs into the attic.  The rain was louder here, up in the eaves of the house, and John weaved his way past the boxes, the bits of discarded furniture, the mannequin in the corner, until he’d reached the piano on the far side of the house.

 

He sat down, but his fingers hovered over the keys.  The rain might have been louder, almost deafening really, but the piano would overwhelm it.  If he played, he’d wake Sherlock below, and John had no illusions about the man.  He’d poke around the house until he found the way up, and then he’d burst into the room with all his energy and demands and John didn’t dare risk it.  The song swirled in his head with a force that John almost didn’t recognize; everything else paled next to it, but it was still fragile enough that any outside influence might shatter it.

 

John rested his fingers on the keys, and began to move them, playing without making a sound.

 

_Couldn’t I, couldn’t I, couldn’t I_

_Couldn’t I love you?_

 

He played.  Over, and over, and the music in his head matched the words, and the song that had only shape previously began to take on life, altering with every repetition, changing in ways that John hadn’t even considered.  It grew, it shifted, it coalesced into something that John could never have imagined on his own. 

 

The rain was softer now – a gentle pitter-pat instead of the thunderous cacophony it had been earlier.  It made it easier to hear the fiddle, playing along with the piano that John realized was not just in his head.  John closed his eyes and let out a sigh that was probably more amused than it was annoyed, and he stopped playing.  The fiddle stopped a moment later.

 

John stood and wound his way through the attic to the door.  “You’re an insufferable, meddling, fucking ass, did you know that?” he called down the stairs.

 

There was a brief pause before the answer came back up.  “I have been told so on some occasions, yes.”

 

John went back to the piano and played another bar of music, but it didn’t sound as if Sherlock was moving.  He rolled his eyes.  “Well…are you coming or not?”

 

The only answer was the sound of Sherlock’s footsteps, and John rolled his eyes and went back to playing.  He wasn’t surprised when the fiddle rejoined him, this time from the other side of the room, a few minutes later.

 

“Took you long enough to find it,” said John as he played.

 

“Likewise,” countered Sherlock, and instead of being annoyed, John laughed ruefully, as if he’d long since realized that expecting anything short of rudeness from Sherlock Holmes would be a futile effort.

 

Maybe he had.  The man didn’t seem inclined to throw in the towel.  John wondered if it that was how he treated everyone, or just reluctant songwriters. 

 

“Stop thinking,” said Sherlock irritably.  “You’re _thinking_ , that’s why your music is all wrong.  You’re not meant to _think_ about it, you’re meant to compose it.”

 

John stopped playing and twisted to look at Sherlock incredulously.  “I’m supposed to compose without thinking about what I’m composing?”

 

“You’re meant to _play_.”

 

“And I have to think in order to do that.”

 

“I don’t,” said Sherlock, and he rested his bow on the strings and played out a long note.

 

“Well, for the rest of us mortals, thinking tends to help,” said John dryly.

 

“Now you’re talking _and_ thinking.”

 

John rolled his eyes and went back to playing.  Sherlock Holmes might be able to play without putting in much thought; John Watson needed to concentrate if he wanted to keep up.

 

And keeping up was exactly what he was doing – every new phrase, every new iteration of the song was matched almost immediately by Sherlock, who not only seemed to catch onto the variations immediately but would expand upon them, going in directions John hadn’t imagined, sometimes which seemed less and less harmonious until Sherlock seamlessly played them back into the original melody.

 

Every time, it was amazing, and every time, John shook his head and smiled even wider, wishing he dared stop to write it down.  He’d never remember it, not all of it – and he found himself wanting the night to never end, for them both to continue playing over and over, one after the other. 

 

But it did end, in a rolling flurry of give-and-take that left John giggling with mirth and feeling nearly light-headed.   He turned on the bench to see Sherlock lower the violin and bow, a small smile on his own face that still looked as genuine and full as John felt just then.

 

“That was _ridiculous_.  That was the most _ridiculous_ thing I’ve ever done,” John claimed with a grin.

 

“And you invaded Afghanistan.”

 

“How did – never mind, I don’t even care.  How long were we playing?”

 

Sherlock shrugged.

 

“And we didn’t write down a single note,” said John, half amazed and half horrified.  “We’ll never remember all of that, I don’t care how fantastic your musical memory is.”

 

“Hopefully it was no more than sixty minutes,” said Sherlock gravely, and pulled the tape recorder out of his pocket and set it down on top of the piano.

 

John stared at it for a moment before bursting into fresh laughter.  “Christ, you – you _asshole_ , I thought – let’s play it and see how it sounds.”

 

John reached for the recorder but Sherlock caught his arm.  “No,” he said firmly.  “We’ll play it again, this time start to finish without all the improvisational parts.  That is, include the ones that fit in the context of the song, the way it would be for radio play.”

 

“All right,” said John cautiously, though he thought he understood what Sherlock meant.  “Keep the energy, lose the frills, is that it?”

 

Sherlock’s smile grew wider, almost a grin, and he lifted the violin up to his chin again.  “Start the recorder.”

 

The song was better, even in its shortened state.  John could feel the music settle in him now as he played, and this time, it felt right.  Complete.  Almost comforting.  When the recording device clicked off automatically halfway through their playing – clearly that side of the tape was full – he wasn’t even worried about losing the new notes.  They’d stay with him long enough to write them down when the playing was over.

 

Sherlock adjusted the tuning on his violin while John scratched out the revised composition.  “It won’t bother you?” he asked before beginning.

 

“No,” said John, already fast at work.  He played out a phrase on the piano briefly, and then picked up his pencil again.  “Let me know if you need a note.”

 

“A, please.”

 

John played it, _dong-dong-dong-dong_ , and then went back to the notations.  “And here I thought you’d have perfect pitch, what with all your other obvious talents.”

 

“Must make you feel useful somehow.”

 

John snorted, and the attic was quiet for a few moments, except for the sound of his pencil scratching, and A slowly coming into tune.  Neither activity took very long – there had only been a minute or so left when the tape ran out – and John threw down the pencil long before Sherlock finished.

 

“Didn’t think it was really that hard to tune a fiddle,” said John, crossing his arms and leaning up against the piano to watch Sherlock.

 

“I’m something of a perfectionist.”

 

“Mmm.” 

 

Sherlock glanced at John for a brief moment before going back to his instrument.  “You have questions.”

 

John crossed his legs at the ankles.  “How’d you know this ain’t my house?”

 

“The curtains,” said Sherlock instantly, still focused on his violin, now moving on to D.  “If you could—“

 

John turned around and played the note for him.  _Dong-dong-dong-dong_.

 

“They’re old but in very good condition.  Likely been here as long as the house, meaning that whoever put them up was either very fond of them or simply did not care.  Given that they match the décor in the rest of the house, I’m leaning toward the former.  The overall decoration, however, is more feminine than not – paisleys and lace and floral patterns – which makes me believe that you are not the original owner.  You have made very few changes to the décor, which leads me to believe that you have not been here long, nor do you have ownership of such a level that you can make changes in the décor.  Therefore, not your house.  Nor was it a family home – you very clearly do not belong to it or any part of it.  Your accent is not quite one of the area, and you do not have much in the way of local friends or relatives.  I would say you have lived here – two years at best, perhaps as much as three, but not more.  The only possessions of yours in the house are the clothes on your back, and the typewriter you used to write to me.  Belonged to a parent, hence you use it for sentimental reasons.  Invalided out of the army, where you were a medic.  Leg wound, perhaps left shoulder as well, it appears to be stiffer than the right.  You weren’t raised with horses, but you appear to take care of them extremely well; they responded to you and were quite forgiving of your mistakes.”

 

“Mistakes?” echoed John.

 

Sherlock waved his hand.  “Why do you think the horses were nudging you to the stables when the storm hadn’t even started yet?  They know the weather better than you do.”

 

John chuckled.  “Or you, don’t forget.  Do you do that to all your songwriters?”

 

“I could, if I met them.  As you are the only songwriter I’ve met, I couldn’t say for certain.”

 

That took John by surprise.  “The only – ah.  So my songs were bad enough to need intervention?”

 

“No,” said Sherlock.  “Your songs were good enough to warrant my attention.  G.”

 

It took John far too long to realize that Sherlock was asking for the note, instead of expressing a sound of frustration.  _Dong-dong-dong-dong_ , went the piano, and then he turned around again.  Watching Sherlock tune the violin ought to have been boring, but John found himself fascinated by the way the thin light of the attic played on his hands, wrapping around the long fingers, the slight protrusion of his knuckles, the veins as they popped out on the backs of his hands.

 

His hand was gently curved around the neck of the violin; John watched Sherlock’s fingers adjust the pins, and if he thought about the hand-job he’d given himself a few hours before…well.  He hadn’t felt like doing anything in that way in years, really.  Not for lack of trying, either.  But somehow, the idea of Sherlock Holmes was enough to bring just a tiny part of him back to life.  And it wasn’t as though Sherlock could read minds and would realize that John was bent that way, had been using him as a starting-off point for anything particularly debauched.  He didn’t _think_.

 

The music – playing with him, laughing with him – that was just the icing on the cake.  Having Sherlock Holmes look at him and know instantly everything about him – that was something else altogether, and John didn’t want to think about it too hard.

 

“That was amazing,” said John.  “What you did there.  With me.”

 

Sherlock’s mouth quirked; for a moment, John wasn’t sure that Sherlock _couldn’t_ read minds, and hadn’t known exactly what John had been thinking of to prompt the comment.

 

“The music, or the deduction?”

 

“Both, I suppose, but if that’s what you call it, I guess I’m referring to the deductions.”

 

“You said I had something wrong.”  Sherlock’s voice was light, but John grinned as he heard the unasked question.

 

“It’s not my house, or my farm.  I’ve been here for going on two years in June.  And you’re right, I didn’t grow up in this part of Oklahoma.  I was an army medic until I was shot in the leg on a routine patrol.  The typewriter was my father’s, and it’s probably the biggest thing I own apart from the truck – and Remy and Bastian.”

 

Sherlock stopped tuning the violin, stared at John for a moment, and then groaned, rolling his head back on his shoulders.  “The _horses_.  It’s always something.”

 

“Well,” said John thinly, “they’re an indulgence.  Don’t have two cents to rub together most days; horses ain’t exactly in my budget.”

 

“Sentiment,” said Sherlock, as if the word was foreign. 

 

“Three of a kind,” said John, and turned back to the piano before he could give any more of himself away.  Already he was berating himself for saying as much as he had.  “Did you want to play the song again?”

 

He could feel Sherlock’s eyes on his back, continuing to do whatever it was he did – deducing him, trying to pick apart his words.  “No,” said Sherlock.  “You have another song to play.  Just written tonight, I think.”

 

_I should’ve known your game before I looked at you._

 

“Not for you,” snapped John quickly.  “Haven’t even written it down yet – it ain’t for public consumption.”

 

“Then another one,” said Sherlock calmly.  “There was one in that pack about an old blue truck?  Terrible, really, but perhaps…”

 

John remembered the song.  He hadn’t been perfectly happy with it, either – maybe playing it with someone else, particularly someone as clever as Sherlock Holmes, might help.  “Yeah, fine,” said John, and he shuffled through the music on the piano.  “You need E?”

 

“Please.” 

 

_Dong-dong-dong-dong_.

 

The rhythmic sound of E being perfected on a violin filled the attic; John found the song long before he finished shuffling the papers on the piano.  The note twisted and wriggled in the air around him, and John let his thoughts just float with it, the better to ignore the strange buzz in the back of his mind.

 

_Not for you…you don’t get that part of me…I shouldn’t have even had that part of me…some things stay mine, even if you get to have the songs_.

 

“Found it,” said John when Sherlock finished tuning the violin.  “Do you want to look at it again?”

 

“Play,” was the only response.  So John did.

 


	7. Wrong Direction Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Title is from Dolly Parton’s [Wrong Direction Home](http://youtu.be/S9njkJnrajM). I’ll let you all figure out which direction is the wrong one. And for that matter, who’s taking it. (Sherlock’s got his own opinion on that score.)

They were still playing as the sun rose, and it was only when John saw the light streaming in through the circular attic window that he started to feel the hours he’d been awake. His body felt heavy and slightly sluggish in the easy way of exhaustion. 

“Look at that,” he said, and stopped playing to peer outside. “Clear skies – the storm’s blown away.”

“Of course it has, the rain stopped hours ago,” said Sherlock, a bit irritable, though John didn’t know if it was lack of sleep or the cessation of music. 

“Don’t be such a joy in the mornings,” said John, and he closed the lid to the piano’s keys firmly. “I’ll go start the coffee.”

“I don’t need coffee.”

John rolled his eyes, amused. “I do.”

“Fine,” said Sherlock briskly. “If you can drink enough to keep you awake without giving you the shakes – we have at least three more songs to work on, as well as transcribing the work we did earlier.”

John paused at the door to look back at Sherlock. “That right?”

“Of course I’m right, I’m always right.”

John decided not to correct him. “It’ll have to wait. The horses need turning out and I’ll need to check the perimeter for any damage.” John headed down the stairs to the house. Already he could feel the temperature change from the cold attic to the nearly pleasant warmth below. He had to stifle back the yawn; his entire body felt comfortably languid and sleepy, and he suspected he’d be surviving solely on coffee for the majority of the day.

Sherlock might have cursed behind him, but in any case, he followed, though a few steps behind. “Find someone else to do it.”

John snorted. “It’s my job, Sherlock.”

“Writing songs is your job.”

“Not all the time.”

“You’re exhausted, you’ll fall asleep in your saddle.”

Worse than falling asleep at the piano, John supposed, but he somehow doubted Sherlock would have allowed him to sleep for long. Wake up, John, we’re nearly done with this instrumental section at the bridge.

“Well,” said John reasonably, “Remy will keep me out of trouble if I do. And the saddle’s not all that uncomfortable a place to sleep.”

Sherlock snorted lightly, and John switched on the coffeepot. He could see more clearly out of the windows in the kitchen than he could in the attic; the entire world outside glistened with frost, crystal ice and rich, dark mud. But the skies were clear of clouds; a pale blue that faded into a butter-yellow where the sun was still touching the horizon. 

“Your car’s still here,” said John. “Told you it wouldn’t wash away to Texas.”

Sherlock was poking the jars and canisters on the counter. “Don’t be ridiculous, John. The force needed to sweep a car 200 miles was far greater than the storm that passed through here.”

John grinned, thinking of Sherlock’s insistence the previous night about reaching that car, and the relief when John brought in the violin. He almost said something, and then thought better of it while he put bread into the toaster and went to look for the jam.

“I’m not much of a cook but I can do eggs if you want.”

“Coffee is fine.”

“Toast? Mary makes a good strawberry rhubarb jam.”

Sherlock was quiet for a moment, and his voice had gone stiff when he replied. “Coffee is fine.”

“Suit yourself.”

Sherlock continued to move about the kitchen, restless and impatient, while John busied himself with preparing breakfast. He didn’t watch Sherlock, though he wanted to see what the man made of the kitchen. There was something fluid about the way the man moved from one subject to the other: one set of deductions to the next, and John wondered if he was tired at all.

“You can sit down, don’t need an invitation.”

“I’m not tired.”

“Aren’t you? I’m beat.”

“I very rarely sleep while I’m working,” said Sherlock impatiently, glancing at the row of cookbooks on the far shelf. “None of these cookbooks have been touched in a decade.”

“Well, none of them are mine,” said John reasonably. “And I’m not much of a cook. Can about handle eggs and the occasional burger, and that’s about it, so if you’re looking for home-cooked meals by staying longer, you’ll be disappointed.”

“A neighbor,” said Sherlock, as if he were deciding something. “There aren’t any houses within two miles of here, so you’d only see her if either of you made the effort, and she’s the one who of course makes the effort to come over here. Older lady, lives alone, widowed with three cats and thinks you’re too thin, so she plies you with strawberry rhubarb jam and pie. You like the jam, but dislike the pie, and don’t have the heart to tell her.”

John snorted his laughter. “You need more sleep if you’re going to try reading someone’s life story from a jar of jam. Only thing you have right is the neighbor and the jam parts. Wrong on all the other counts.”

“So she’s married.”

“No. And she does a pretty good pie.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed briefly, and then he shrugged. “Eating doesn’t concern me. The body is just transport, and my mind is far better occupied with solving how to rearrange your songs so that they are successful. I assume you approve of such work, rather than having me sleep on your sofa.”

“Rearrange my songs as much as you like, but at some point you’ll need to sleep or you’ll never manage the drive back to Nashville,” said John.

Sherlock made a pff sound, a bit as if the idea of returning to Nashville was completely ridiculous, and John began to wonder just how long the man intended to stay.

“You don’t sleep, you don’t eat – what else don’t you do, Sherlock Holmes?” wondered John aloud, and then turned back to the toaster as it pinged before his face could go bright red from the innuendo. Or perhaps he was the only one who heard it; Sherlock said nothing in response, and after a moment, continued his inspection of the kitchen.

It was a comfortable silence – if not entirely companionable – and when John finally sat down at the table with the two mugs of coffee, he settled into his chair with a sigh. The coffee was hot and milky, and he could feel the fire of caffeine rush through his bloodstream, waking up his muscles and nerve endings with little sparks. It would be a few hours of wakefulness, at most, enough time to turn out the horses and do a quick perimeter check, and as long as there weren’t problems – and of course something would need attention – he might be able to catch a quick nap before lunch.

“Coffee’s on the table,” said John mildly, but Sherlock made no move for it, instead peering at a photograph on the fridge.

“Your unit in Afghanistan,” he said.

John swallowed the coffee in his mouth; it was suddenly difficult to manage. “Yeah. That’s Murray on the far left, he’s the one who owns the farm.”

Sherlock studied the photograph; for a moment, John thought he was going to speak again – likely another run of deductions, though John had no idea what one could possibly have gleaned from a five-year-old photograph where the individuals weren’t three inches tall. John had no desire to hear them, suddenly, and scrambled to think of something that would jerk Sherlock out of whatever process was already starting in his head.

“Why country music anyway? Never really thought of it as something that transcends a cultural divide.”

“Don’t be such a plebian, John. Keith Urban is Australian. Petula Clark had a number 20 hit back in 1982. There has always been an international element to country music.”

John rolled his eyes. “Yeah, but – I heard you last night. You could play for a symphony or something. You don’t even like country music.”

John thought Sherlock’s back stiffened, just a bit, and he rose up to his toes, still refusing to look at John. “What I like is irrelevant.”

“So who likes it if you don’t?” John frowned. “You can’t tell me someone’s forcing you to play. Are they?”

“Of course not, John,” snapped Sherlock. “Don’t be tedious. I play of my own free will, if not an actual desire to populate the air waves with additional twang.”

“If you don’t like it, why play it at all?”

Sherlock did turn around then, and John had a glimpse of the strange paleness in his cheeks, the odd way his eyes were fever-bright. It looked like Sherlock might have actually answered the question – or at least given another snarky, half-annoyed response – when the cell phone in Sherlock’s pocket rang out.

Sherlock looked about as surprised as John felt. He pulled the phone from his pocket with a frown that only grew deeper when he glanced at the screen. “Can the man not take a hint?” he muttered to the room. “I left Nashville so as not to talk to him.”

“Perhaps you’re just not very good at giving them,” offered John. The combination of coffee and lack of sleep was making him feel bold and reckless, and he grinned when Sherlock glared at him. 

“People who think they are clever are very rarely so,” he informed him icily, and then answered the phone as he walked out of the room for whatever privacy he could find. “Mycroft. Rather early in the morning for you, isn’t it? I don’t believe there’s an establishment that sells cake open for at least four or five hours.”

The fabled brother, thought John, as the door swung closed behind Sherlock, and his voice faded into an annoyed murmur. He wondered what sort of baby name books they had in England, and went to make another piece of toast while he waited for Sherlock to reappear.

Horses, perimeter check, and then…music. More music, until the end of the day, and somehow, the prospect of having company didn’t seem terrible. Sherlock wasn’t terribly demanding, not in the usual way of company – he didn’t want a comfortable bed or an edible meal, he didn’t seem to be inclined for conversation or activity. He only wanted John’s music, and luckily enough, music was on the only thing John wanted to give. 

John glanced out the window at the sunrise, and wondered how to cut an hour-long perimeter check down to forty-five minutes instead.

*

“Your childish behavior towards me, brother, never fails to amuse,” Mycroft said, and Sherlock could picture him standing at a window in his hotel room in Nashville, looking out with disdain on the American landscape. Or more likely, Sherlock’s own apartment, because Ned Turner would have considered loyalty to include allowing family into Sherlock’s spaces, instead of the opposite.

Sherlock’s head felt oddly light, almost frazzled. How could he have spent an entire night playing music – country music, even – with a complete stranger, only to have that stranger question his involvement in the genre? Was his disinterest in twang that obvious?

Was his implied and carefully constructed motivation in joining the country western circuit that transparent? Of course, Mycroft had always been able to see through it. But when Mycroft had questioned Sherlock’s decision, he had sounded much more cutting than merely curious John Watson had done.

“Work demanded I be in Oklahoma, Mycroft. I assure you, my flight from Nashville had very little to do with avoiding you.”

“Of course not,” said Mycroft, and it sounded very much as if he were humoring Sherlock. “And work is precisely why you have been avoiding every phone call for the last twenty-four hours, of course.”

Sherlock frowned. “What phone calls? I don’t have any missed numbers; I’ve had my mobile on me and would have heard the ring.”

“Your Mr Turner has been attempting to reach you since yesterday afternoon. Of course, the storm rendered the satellites that operate your mobile useless, so he was attempting to ring through on the land line associated with one John Watson – I can only assume he’s the man you fled to the back of beyond to meet. I admit that I wouldn’t have thought you to be drawn in by a cowhand, Sherlock, but I suppose a lowering of standards was inevitable with prolonged exposure to American customs.”

“Wrong, as usual, Mycroft. What does Turner want? To remind me of the daily cost of a recording studio and musicians?”

“Joseph Strangers is dead.”

Sherlock ran the name through his mind palace, and came up blank. “I don’t understand what that means to me.”

Mycroft’s sigh was audible. “Mr Strangers was the violinist associated with Ms Yearwood’s tour. I assume you can gather how the rest of the conversation would have gone, had you answered Turner’s phone call.”

“The phone never rang,” snapped Sherlock, but his mind was already spinning. He clutched the phone in his hand tighter. “When? What were the circumstances? Has the murderer been apprehended?”

“You assume he was murdered.” Mycroft sounded almost delighted.

“Of course he was murdered, Mycroft. Coincidences like this do not occur. The universe is rarely so lazy.”

“Indeed, but this appears to be one of those rare times. The police believe that Mr Strangers committed suicide.”

“Wrong!”

“As it happens, this time I agree with your assessment, but I am not going to be the one to dissuade the police from their incorrect assessment. At any rate, your services are apparently required. You will need to ring your Mr Turner for details, I admit I really do not care.”

“Then why call me at all, Mycroft? Oh, never mind. If this is about Mummy’s birthday, I’m not coming. I’ll be on tour. I’ll be sure to send flowers or something appropriate.”

“This has gone on long enough, Sherlock. How much longer will it take for you to accept that not every death is a murder?”

“Not every death – one death. He was murdered, Mycroft. In cold blood, with half a dozen witnesses, and I’m going to stop the man who did it.”

“Mr Strangers.”

“Don’t be stupid,” snapped Sherlock.

“I was never the stupid one,” Mycroft reminded him, and Sherlock resisted the urge to pick up one of the floral pillows and throw it at a lampshade. “But then, I’m not the one who insisted on this ridiculous subterfuge that you continue to play. One wonders how long you’re going to keep at it, Sherlock. The man has been dead for three years; I hardly think he cares what you do with your life now. Of course, he probably didn’t care about it before he died—”

“Piss off, Mycroft.”

“When will you accept that this is not what he would have wanted for you, Sherlock? How many more years of your life are you going to waste before you come home?”

Sherlock filled his lungs to bursting and held his breath. He closed his eyes tightly, and waited for the strange pain in his chest to ease in favor of his lungs protesting the outward pressure.

“I’ve arranged for you to return to Nashville on the 9 a.m. flight from Tulsa. American Airlines.”

“I don’t need your help.”

“Then don’t take it. I fear for what would be served during the flight. There might be bovines in the passenger hold with you.”

“Your perceptions on what life is like in America are woefully inaccurate, brother,” said Sherlock. “I can drive.”

“And waste the opportunity Mr Strangers’ death has afforded you? I think not. Luckily for you, no amount of time-saving travel will enable you to see me on your return; I must be in New York by noon. Perhaps we shall see each other from our respective flights and can wave our greetings to each other midair.”

Suddenly the prospect of a leisurely flight instead of a frantic ten-hour drive was looking far preferable. “Yes. Waving. That is precisely what I will be doing if I see your plane.”

“Witty as always. Do ring your manager, Sherlock, before he bothers me again. Good morning.”

And with that, Mycroft disconnected the call, before Sherlock had a chance to get the last word in.

Sherlock resisted the urge to throw the phone against the wall. He could hear John in the kitchen, probably getting himself another piece of toast, pouring himself additional coffee, possibly even looking at the previously ignored cookbooks. Planning for the day, planning for Sherlock in his day, planning for the interruption to his routine that immersing himself in music would bring.

Planning. Sherlock had the idea that John had not put so much effort into planning anything in quite some time, and all it took was twelve hours for him to begin again. The man was only the barest hint of rusty about it – he might have set the timer on the coffeemaker, if he’d been used to planning anything at all – but he seemed to pick it up fairly quickly. He’d been a planner, once, it was obvious who anyone who knew how to look.

Sherlock knew how to look. Better, Sherlock knew how to see. And what he saw when he looked at John Watson…all the musical notes still unplayed, the words unsung, the laughter that hadn’t yet rung out. Sherlock thought of the songs up in the attic, waiting for them to return. 

It was nearly half six already; he did not have much time to spare. He slid the phone back into his pocket and busied himself for a moment, collecting the loose music sheets they’d left downstairs, gathering them together and slipping them into his case. It didn’t take very long – they’d left the majority of everything upstairs. At least he hadn’t clothes to repack.

Sherlock breezed back into the kitchen and found John already eating another piece of toast with jam. “You won’t mind if I take the coffee to go, of course,” he said, and went straight to the stairs leading to the attic.

John paused mid-bite, and nearly choked on it trying to talk and swallow at once. “What? Where are you going?”

“Tulsa, then Nashville,” Sherlock said, already halfway up the stairs. His violin and the music were all where he left them; he didn’t bother to neaten the pages; instead, he grabbed them roughly from the piano, pretending they were Mycroft’s finely pressed bespoke suit, or perhaps the confused look on John’s face. He couldn’t think about John Watson. He couldn’t afford to think about John Watson; John Watson was not the reason he had spent the previous three years working himself into the position now at his fingertips, and if nothing else, Mycroft’s phone call had reminded him of that. Sherlock headed back down the stairs with as much noise as he could manage. 

John was still in the kitchen, looking shocked and confused. “But…today? I thought you were going to stay – there are other songs to work on….” John’s voice faltered; for the first time since Sherlock had met him, he appeared uncertain and wrong-footed.

“Yes, John, today. My flight leaves at nine, and I’m not certain of the exact location of Tulsa’s undoubtedly first-class airport, so as you can see I’m in something of a hurry.”

John stared at him for a moment, and then his expression went from confused to resolved. “Right. Fine. Never mind then. I’ve got work to do here anyway.”

The tone was…harsh. Cold. Or attempting to be cold, or at least unfeeling, and Sherlock didn’t believe that John truly felt like that for a moment. Christ, the man was terrible at lying, if Sherlock could see through him that easily. No wonder he lived alone, if he couldn’t even manage a simple white lie such as I’m sorry you’re leaving.

That was better. Easier, thought Sherlock. It wasn’t as though he needed John Watson to like him, after all. The man was irrelevant.

“Come with me.”

Sherlock didn’t even think about it before he said it; honestly, he wasn’t entirely sure why he said it at all. But the expression on John’s face when it was said: complete amazement, as if the request had been entirely unexpected.

To be fair, it was – to both of them. But the more he thought about it (and Sherlock had always thought much more quickly than anyone else), the more it made sense. The twang needed to be played – and John Watson, in some strange way, made it nearly bearable.

But John – John was staring at him as if he’d just grown another head – or as if John had been the one to grow the head, and he couldn’t quite understand what he’d found on his shoulder. “Just like that? Go with you to Nashville?”

“We can work on the songs on the way. It shouldn’t be much trouble to obtain you a ticket and we can arrange to sit next to each other. You can transcribe the songs from the recording and I’ll run through the songs we haven’t rewritten yet –“

“Why do you assume they need to be rewritten?”

“John, of course they do. Once we’re in Nashville we’ll have the entire studio at our disposal. Much easier to work on orchestration if we have the other instruments there to hear.”

John snorted, shaking his head and turning away. The move was so dismissive – so contemptuous, that Sherlock wasn’t surprised by what came out of his mouth next. “I’m not going with you to Nashville, Sherlock.”

“Don’t worry about living accommodations; my flat has plenty of space. There’s an entire half I don’t even use, I’m sure it has a bedroom or something in it where you can sleep.”

John began to laugh incredulously. “You can’t be serious.”

“Of course I’m serious, John. I’m very rarely anything else.”

“And just how long do you think I’d be gone on this little boondangle of yours, since you feel the need to offer me accommodations?”

“A week? A month? I don’t know, how long do you want to be gone?” asked Sherlock. “How many songs do you have in you?”

“That’s not the point. What about the horses? Or the perimeter fence?”

“Someone else can do it.”

“There’s no one else to do it! I’m the only one here.”

“You have neighbors, surely. What about Mary of the strawberry rhubarb jam?”

“I am not asking Mary to do my work for me.”

“I don’t snore, I’m not demanding, I go for long periods without saying a word. Sometimes I play violin in the middle of the night but you play piano at that time as well so this will not be a problem. Clearly, we would make ideal flat-mates, so I hardly understand your objections.”

Now John began to laugh harder, or perhaps it just seemed that way. “Really? You can’t understand why I wouldn’t leave a stable full of horses to fend for themselves, without even trying to find someone to fill in for me while I take a month-long vacation in Nashville to write songs and live with you? You don’t think I might have some sense of responsibility for my work here?”

Sherlock paused as he shoved the papers into the case. “And this work is more important?”

“It’s the work I was hired to do.”

“I’m hiring you to write songs for me,” said Sherlock coolly. “I suppose the question is, which work would you rather do, John? Stay on a horse farm that doesn’t belong to you for the rest of your life, pecking out a song when it suits you or when you can fit it in, or do what it is you’re actually meant to do – write songs with me, and in doing so possibly save someone’s life?”

The line along John’s jaw grew tense. “You don’t know what I’m meant to do.”

“Don’t I?” countered Sherlock. “You were in the Army until you were invalided out. You lived on a farm in your early years, though not with horses, and that’s why you ran back to it when you left Afghanistan. You might tell yourself you’re meant to be here, John Watson – but if you’d always been meant to be working as a cowboy in the middle of nowhere you wouldn’t have tried so hard to leave in the first place.”

John looked up at him for a moment – and Sherlock thought he ought to have expected a cruel, angry look. Instead – John looked flat. Expressionless. Dead, very nearly.

“And you think I’m meant to be with you in Nashville, is that it?”

“It’s important work I’m doing, John.”

“Important,” repeated John, still flat.

“Vital, even. Dangerous, some might say.”

And then John’s eyes flashed. “Dangerous and vital work – sitting in your ivory tower, writing country music – sorry, rewriting country music. The only thing you’re in danger of is a bad review and poor showing on the charts.”

“John—“

“Writing songs never saved anyone’s life, and you’re a fool if you pretend otherwise,” snapped John before he turned away again.

For a moment, Sherlock cursed himself – and then he read the tension that worked its way from John’s jaw to the clench of his hands. “If you won’t come with me, I’ll go alone. I have at least two dozen new songs to learn before the tour begins and I can’t waste any more time trying to convince you of what ought to be immediately obvious. You’re of course welcome to join me if you should come to your senses, but seeing as you seem to prefer the back of beyond to a life that actually might mean something—“

“My life means something!”

“Of course it does,” said Sherlock, and put as much effort into sounding patronizing as he could manage. “But there is always room for improvement.”

“Unless it’s you, I suppose.”

Sherlock shrugged. “Good-bye, then, John. It was a pleasure.”

He stuck out his hand for John to shake, and after a moment, John did: briskly, sharply, and without prolonged contact. His hand was warm to the touch, the skin rough and faintly burred. When John dropped the hand, Sherlock felt a soft, bereft, almost lonesome pang in his chest.

It was of no consequence; John was already taking a step back. “North on 40 for about forty-five minutes; you’ll see signs for Tulsa International by then,” he said shortly. “Have a safe flight.”

“I’m hardly flying the plane, John, it’s not as though I can control the safety of the flight,” said Sherlock, and left the house without another word.

Better that John Watson stay behind. Perhaps the man was smarter than he appeared, if he realized that before Sherlock could. It wasn’t as though Sherlock needed to love the music he played in order to fulfill the vow he’d made when Victor died. He only needed to play it, and already things were in motion that would give Sherlock the opportunity he’d been wanting for three years.

John Watson and his music were entirely unnecessary. Even extraneous – a distraction, to be sure, and this close to his goal, Sherlock could not afford to be distracted. Even by John Watson.

The car was still damp from the previous night’s rain, and gleaming in the early morning sunlight. There was a petrol station not far from the highway; Sherlock could fill up and be gone, return the blasted thing and board the plane and maybe, somewhere between now and then, shake John Watson from his thoughts.

Sherlock set the violin case on the floor and strapped himself in.

He didn’t look back at the house as he drove away. He didn’t want to see John watching him go.


	8. Lonesome Highways

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Title is from Rodney Crowell’s [Many a Long and Lonesome Highway](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xCf5aoZB4ds&feature=youtu.be). It’ll make sense in retrospect, I think.

To say that John had never noticed the quiet before Sherlock had appeared in his life would be incorrect. To say that his world was entirely silent would have been incorrect as well – it was only that the noise that filled John’s days had been the wind that rushed along the meadows, whistling under the eaves of the house. He’d heard the clanking of the old water heater in the middle of the night, and the soft whimpers and shifting paws of the dog as he dreamed of chasing rabbits. John’s background had been full of sounds: the whisper of his clothing on his skin, the sound of his footsteps on the rough wood floors, the huffing snorts of the horses breathing warm, humid air into the cold mornings.

John’s world had been full of sound. He never gave it much thought. 

Sherlock hadn’t even been in the house for a full day, and yet when John stepped back inside after a morning spent with the horses, checking the perimeter fence and fixing the bits that had deteriorated in the storm, he was acutely aware of how empty it was, how still the air seemed, except where the dust motes danced in the sunlight now streaming through the windows. How lonesome drinking coffee at the table could be, when there wasn’t someone poking around the rest of the room, peering into this and that and making ridiculous (if true) statements about what he found. How the sounds he’d felt were so familiar were suddenly echoing in the vast space he’d erected around himself.

They’d never even sat at the table together. They’d never really sat and shot the breeze, they’d sniped and complained and argued and when Sherlock had left, it’d been with a business-like handshake and a cruel word. 

But John couldn’t get the man out of his mind. The way he spoke, the way he laughed, the way he moved under John’s pajama shirt as he played the violin in the thin yellow light from the lamp, as the rain lashed against the windowpanes, shaking and rattling the house around them. Just the two of them, the rest of the world so far away as to be forgotten. And John, despite his desire to be left alone, had felt at ease in his company.

The morning had brought sunshine in exchange for Sherlock’s presence. The sky was the deep blue of a post-storm, and the clouds were wisps of memory somewhere on the horizon. The horses had been their typical selves, placid or anxious or frisky, depending on their individual temperaments. Remy had given him a knowing look that made John’s ears go hot, and that in turn made John brusque with the horse, who couldn’t have possibly known what John had gotten up to in the bed by himself, and if he had known, couldn’t have possibly cared. All the same, Remy seemed to both be laughing at him, and comforting him, in the way that he shook his tail so that it curled around John, and moved his head as if to crush John against his shoulder in an awkward, horsey hug.

“Enough of that now,” said John, unwilling to be comforted. Remy huffed, and let loose, and they both watched Bastian, who was disconcerted and prancing and kept looking over at the house and in the drive, as if he expected to see a small car and a tall, dark-haired man.

“Hell,” swore John, and let Bastian moon his way through the morning.

He called Mary around lunchtime. “Call me back,” he said brusquely when she answered with a cheery hello. “I think my phone’s not working.”

He hung up without another word, trusting that Mary would call back within a few moments. He waited ten, and the phone didn’t make so much as a chirp. 

When he called Mary again, she sounded downright annoyed when she answered with, “John Watson, what has gotten into you?”

“More like something’s gotten into my phone connection. Did you try to call?”

“I let it ring for five minutes straight! I was about to come over there and tell you off for worrying me stupid.”

“Hell,” muttered John. “The phone’s not ringing through.”

“Of course it ain’t, haven’t I been telling you that for months?”

“Have you?”

“Christ almighty, John. Do you listen to a word I say?”

“I need to call the phone company.”

“Well, tell ‘em to send Henry. Dale don’t know the speaker end from the back of a cow.”

“Dale’s the one who fixed me last time.”

“And there’s your problem right there. They’ll try to send you Dale and you just tell ‘em you’ll wait for Henry. It’ll take a few more days, but your phone’ll work at the end of it.”

“I don’t want to wait a few more days,” snapped John.

“What, you expecting Sherlock Holmes to call?”

John winced, said his goodbye, and hung up the phone.

It was a two-week wait for Henry. John gritted his teeth and said it was fine, and as soon as the phone was down, cursed up a blue streak so much that the dog crept under the table to wait it out. When he was done, he moved around the house a bit aimlessly, not entirely sure what to do with the excess energy anger generated, and found himself up in the attic room before he realized.

The attic was filled with sunshine now, streaming in the dormer windows and twinkling with the dust kicked up in the air. There was a strange feel to the space, unlike the rest of the house that seemed emptier than previous. Now the attic felt as if it were lived-in, as if the music they’d played all night had soaked into the exposed wood beams, as if Sherlock had left it only moments ago, would come storming up the stairs and into it, his violin tucked under one arm, complaining about the way John had made him wait all morning. 

John had never felt entirely lonely in the attic, not that he’d have admitted to feeling lonely anywhere else. It ought to have calmed him down, he thought. Instead, he felt a strange mix of jittery and comforted, and his arm ached as he clenched his hands into fists. He wondered how the bandages on Sherlock’s hand were faring, and then roughly shoved the thought out of his mind. He was about to turn back downstairs when he saw the tape recorder sitting on the piano.

Sherlock’s tape recorder.

He went to it, picked it up, turned it over in his hands. He pressed the rewind button, and heard the whirr of the tape rewinding itself at double speed, and was surprised to feel his heart beat a little faster in his chest.

The rewind clicked itself off with a snap, but instead of listening, John made a neat about-face and went straight back down the stairs, set the recorder on the kitchen counter, and called Mike Stamford. Mike would know how to contact Sherlock to return it. Or he’d find out. And John had the idea that Mike would have wanted to know about the session they’d had together, anyway.

“John!” said Mike cheerily over the phone. Christ, was everyone that cheerful in the world? John couldn’t picture it: people smiling like idiots at each other as they passed on the street. “Everything all right in your neck of nowhere?”

“Don’t play idiot with me, Mike.”

“Yeah, sorry. Hear you’ve been pen pals with Sherlock Holmes. How’s that working out?”

“House-guest, more like.”

There was a pause on Mike’s end. “Well, that’s something. He showed up at your door?”

“Yes, indeed.”

“Well, shit. He told me he just wanted to drop you a line.”

“He did that, and then he showed up on my doorstep. Ain’t there something in our contract about agent-client confidentiality, Mike?”

“I’ll have the lawyers check into it,” said Mike. “But really, I’m looking at this purely from a business angle, because I can’t help but think the combination of you and him is going to produce some mighty good songs.”

John groaned. “Fine. We worked some together. And then he took off this morning back to Nashville, so apparently he got whatever it was he came for and split.”

“You didn’t kick him out?”

“I wasn’t raised by wolves, you know.”

“Well, that’s fantastic. Did you give him anything else while he was there?”

John choked and nearly went purple in his effort to keep breathing. “What do you think I’d give him, Mike?!?”

“Songs,” said Mike, as if the conversation hadn’t just taken a decidedly indecent turn. Or maybe that was just how John heard it.

It took John a few moments to gather his wits. “We might have played a few apart from the ones he’d already had.”

“All right,” said Mike. “But next time, if it’s something you wrote by yourself in its entirety, you gotta send them through me if you want to retain your rights to ‘em.”

“I don’t care about that, Mike.”

“You will if the authorship comes into dispute. I can’t protect you if I don’t know how much of something you wrote.”

“I don’t think he’s going to contest me on who wrote the words, Mike.”

“The music, though.”

“He can have it,” snapped John. “But if it makes you feel better, fine. I’ll send ‘em to you first next time. Might have one for you by the end of the week.”

“Good. I’ll give you a call when I’ve heard it through.”

John remembered that he’d actually called Mike for a reason, and not just to be lambasted over Sherlock Holmes. “You can’t – the phone’s not ringing through here, and I can’t get the good repairman for two weeks.”

But Mike was his general, congenial, easy-going self. “Then that’ll give me time to scout it out. Unless you want me to send it direct to Sherlock Holmes.”

“No,” said John quickly. “Not his type of song.”

“Branching out into pop?”

“Fuck you, Mike.”

Mike chuckled. “All right, I’ll decide how to shop it when I see it. Nice talking to you, John. Say hi to the horses for me.”

Mike always said that; John wasn’t sure the man had ever met a horse in his life, much less ridden one. “Will do,” said John, same as he always had, and hung up the phone.

The recorder still sat on the kitchen counter, a little plastic-and-metal reminder that John had forgotten the other reason for his phone call. 

John stared at the recorder, sitting on the counter in his empty house, and listened to the nothing in the air.

*

Sherlock went directly to the studio from the airport. Mycroft had said he would not be in Nashville, but there was the possibility that Mycroft lied and was waiting for him at his apartment. Of course, there was the possibility that Mycroft waited at the studio as well, but then he hadn’t been at the airport, and certainly that would have been a better place to waylay Sherlock on his return. When Sherlock hadn’t seen Mycroft, or the ubiquitous black car waiting at the curb, it made him feel somewhat more comfortable about the unlikelihood of Mycroft’s presence anywhere in the city.

Still. There was no reason to return to the apartment. The studio, however….

Sherlock swept into the studio, ignored the receptionist who tried to wish him a good morning, walked right by Ned Turner as if the man didn’t exist, and went straight into the little recording room with the red-paneled walls and excess of recording devices. He set the violin case down on the table and pulled out the instrument with barely a word.

“Mr Holmes?” said the voice over the intercom.

“Start recording,” said Sherlock brusquely. “Now.” 

As soon as his violin was under his chin, he began to play.

The music burst forth in a tidal wave; cooped up in his head for the duration of the flight and the journey from the airport. It had built up in his muscles and blood and bones, until he’d felt just about ready to burst. He didn’t try to stop it, or even try to control it as his fingers flew across the strings, as his bow worked its way back and forth: first slow and careful, and then quicker and more elaborate. He barely thought about the notes that were coming after the ones he played; he just played, letting it flow without thinking.

It wasn’t that he composed on the spot. The music already existed, somewhere. He merely played it out, pulled it out of his bones and blood and sinews and toes, set it out into the open air and tested it in the light of day. Once played, it was forgotten, as promptly as it was remembered. 

He wasn’t sure how long he played when he realized that it was done – not that he’d stopped playing. It was as if he was floating, trailing along in the aftermath of a storm. The music still came, but without the rush; now he considered his notes, thought about what came next. He could remember snatches of what he’d played, and he played them again, testing the notes, reinforcing the melodies, trying out the harmonies, letting the notes twist and tumble. He felt light. Empty. Hollow. No, that wasn’t right…calmer, perhaps. It was a bit like that easy feeling when he still remembered what it was like to be high, when he knew the crash was coming and still believed that it would be worth the ephemeral joy of being above everything. Faster and smarter and quicker and simply more. 

There’d be a crash coming. There had to be: he hadn’t slept in at least a day, hadn’t eaten in nearly as long. Or had John Watson fed him? Was eating in John Watson’s kitchen the same as eating food in fairyland? Would he never be able to return?

Enough; now his mind was taking flights of fancy. He lowered the bow, and turned to put his violin away.

“Oughter send you to Oklahoma more often,” said Ned Turner over the intercom.

“I hope you were recording that.”

“I ain’t stupid.”

Ain’t. Out of John Watson’s mouth, it had sounded easy, simple, almost endearing. Out of Ned Turner’s, it sounded ridiculous, almost condescending. 

“Do you have the new contracts?” asked Sherlock.

“I do. There’s a couple of points I want to discuss.”

“I’ll sign them.”

“They want you to—“

“That’s fine.”

“No, it ain’t—“

“It’s fine,” said Sherlock, through gritted teeth, and he snapped the violin case closed. He left the studio and started walking to the green room, knowing Turner would follow in a moment. Sure enough, he heard the door slam and Turner’s boots thumping against the carpeted floor.

“It ain’t fine, Sherlock. They ain’t offering upgrades in housin’ or in transportation, and if you’re playing both the opening and the fiddle parts in Yearwood’s show, then you oughtter get both. Or somethin’ more than you’re gettin’ now.”

Turner’s ridiculous accent was always more pronounced when he was testy over something. Sherlock supposed it was his stubbornness – though Sherlock didn’t feel as he was being particularly stubborn about anything that was truly important. He set the violin case down on the green room table and held out his hand to Turner, waiting. Turner sighed, lifted his hat to run his hand over his hair in exasperation, and reached for his briefcase.

“It’s like you don’t even care about compensation.”

“I don’t,” said Sherlock.

“I do.”

Sherlock kept his hand out, and after a moment, Turner slapped the contract into it. Sherlock leaned over the table, skimmed the contract quickly, and signed his name at the bottom with a flourish.

“Well, there,” said Turner grumpily. “You’re now not only the opening act, but you’re also the fiddle player for Yearwood’s show, replacing the man who died two days ago. Congratulations.”

Sherlock handed him the contracts, and Turner shoved them back into his briefcase.

“I’ll need the sheet music for whatever songs Yearwood expects me to play.”

“By the end of the week, I expect, once I fax them the contract. She’ll want you for rehearsals, but I don’t know where yet – Oklahoma or L.A., I expect.”

Sherlock went still. “Oklahoma?”

“She lives in Tulsa, didn’t you know that? You probably passed her on the road. Maybe work in a visit to your songwriter. Learn to ride a horse, maybe.”

It had taken an hour to drive from the horse farm up to Tulsa; the sun had just been rising, the storm from the night before completely blown away. Sherlock knew that the sky was the same in any part of the world, but somehow, that morning as the miles increased between him and John, the world had seemed especially large, the horizon stretched out into infinity. The world had been painted in pale yellows and dusty greys. When he’d turned the car into the rental company, the sun had been bright in the sky, but his head was still encased in fog.

“He’s not my songwriter.”

“Well, learn to ride a horse, anyway. I’ll let you know the details when I get ‘em.”

The idea that he might go back…might be in striking distance of John, able to dash down and play for a minute or an hour or a day. See John’s grin over his shoulder, listen to the off-note keys on the high end of the piano and despair ever having a half-way decent tuner visit somewhere so out of the way….

“L.A.,” said Sherlock firmly.

“What about it?”

“The tour starts in L.A. There’s no need for me to go to Oklahoma for rehearsals, I can meet the rest of the band in L.A. the week before we begin,” said Sherlock firmly.

Turner frowned. “She’s not going to like that. And you already signed the contract.”

“Then tear it up and I’ll sign another when the clause is added,” snapped Sherlock. “I’m not returning to Oklahoma, Turner. She can find another fiddle player and pay for another hotel room.”

Turner slapped his hat on the table. “Christ Almighty, Sherlock. You get in a fight with John Watson? He don’t own the whole state of Oklahoma. I doubt he owns even a portion of it.”

Sherlock didn’t look at him. “This has nothing to do with John Watson.”

“And I’ve got swampland in Louisiana,” muttered Turner. “Fine. I’ll settle it with Yearwood’s people but they ain’t gonna like it.”

“They needn’t be worried about my ability to play with the rest of the band.”

“No, it ain’t that precisely, or they wouldn’t have asked you. But it don’t look good, Sherlock – part of being in a band is being a team player, and that’s one thing you ain’t ever been or likely to be.”

“Thank God,” said Sherlock, and left the room without another word.

*

John was exhausted. It had been the longest of days, preceded by the longest of nights, and he should have fallen into his bed and proved that one really could fall asleep before their head hit the pillow.

Instead, he stared up at the ceiling, his hand on the dog’s soft head, his fingers curled under the hook of its ears. There was a wind outside the house, gentle and rocking, and he could hear all the small noises of the night: frogs and crickets and the way the dog sighed and snuffled next to him.

And under that, nothing. Not even the beating of his own heart, really, though certainly it did, without John’s needing to be aware of it.

He had no idea how long he’d laid there before he sat up and swung his legs out of the bed. Five minutes, thirty, an hour. It didn’t matter. He walked straight into the kitchen without turning on a single light, and rummaged in the junk drawer for the pair of earbuds he’d seen there one day, and then carried them, and the tape recorder, back to bed.

He turned it on before he even plugged the buds in, and by the time he’d found the right connection, and adjusted the volume, and put the buds in his ears, the music was already playing.

“Yes, like that, exactly like that,” said Sherlock on the tape, all brusque excitement and energy. John closed his eyes, his fingers found the soft fur of the dog’s head, and he fell asleep.

*

The sense of peace is difficult to describe, so he doesn’t try. He wraps himself in it for a few days, wears it like a second skin. He breathes easier, fills two pairs of lungs to capacity, walks with purpose and alacrity on two pairs of feet. Two sets of lips make it easier to smile; the second set of eyes make it easier to see the world smile back at him.

Everyone is endlessly kind, he thinks. The world is soft and gentle, and he floats along in it, doubled as he is, and feeling content because of it. 

The feeling will last for weeks, if he is careful, and so he is as cautious as he can be: he does not read the newspaper, or turn on the television, or listen to the radio. He eats his food at room temperature, because he doesn’t dare turn on the stove or microwave, or open the refrigerator. At night he reads by the flickering of a candle, and in the morning, he wakes when the sun pours in through his windows, and feels better rested for it. 

He walks everywhere. The benefits are numerous: the fresh air, the sound of the birds singing, the feel of pavement under his feet. The world rushes around him: Los Angelos in their cars, rushing spinning out of control around him, always with somewhere to be, edging out to be the last car through the intersection at a yellow light that is already past due to turn red. He sees them and pities them: they are singular and lonely, as he once was, and they’ll go through their entire lives, alone and never quite realizing it, their second selves severed from them as easily as a carving knife through paper.

(As he will be again, he does not think, because he knows it already, and such thoughts diminish and dilute the time he has now.)

His doubled pair of nostrils make easy work of smelling the good smells from the bakeries: the sugared frostings that adorn wedding and birthday and celebration cakes. The laughter of children racing in their schoolyards, the joyful clanging of the bell as it calls them in to classes. They line up, jostling each other, and somewhere in their mix, he knows there’s a small child being jostled with them, perhaps a bit nervous and afraid, and he sends his best thoughts to that unknown, unseen-but-surely-there child. They’re connected, in a way. All lonely people are, and he understands being small and lonely.

At first, even the terrible parts of the walk are all right. The homeless and downtrodden with their hand-made cardboard signs, their loss and despair and hopelessness, and he gives them wide berth, because they would steal his comfort from him if they knew how. (Some of them know how, he thinks.) Sometimes there are sirens, and the sirens cut through his armor, slice through his second skin and ring in his second ears, and after they pass, he shakes for what seems like hours. 

(Eventually, the hours will turn into days. The pavement will smell like piss and vomit, discarded paper cups and crumbled McDonalds bags. A lone shoe on the road will hurt so badly that he will turn around and return home, huddle for hours in his bathroom. It’s then that he’ll know his second skin has melted away entirely, and he’ll need to carve himself a new one again.)

But that is weeks away – months, if he is careful, and his second skin still feels new and fresh as the sugar-candied roses on the cakes in the bakery window glisten with decorating sugar. The sun is bright and there is a pleasant breeze in the air that one doesn’t often find in Los Angeles, and he walks with purpose, his second self wrapped around his shoulders.

There are messages waiting for him when he walks into the office; the secretary hands them with a smile that he returns easily, and he glances through as he stands at her desk and chats about whatever trivial nonsense she brings up. Something about the dog, and an operation. He doesn’t really listen, makes the sympathetic noises he knows she likes. 

“Oh, and I ordered the flowers this morning,” she adds, and he reads the last of the messages, nodding absently. “The family has also asked for donations to one of the music schools – did you want to contribute?”

“Hmm?” He looks up from the messages, and suddenly notes the dark color of her dress, odd considering the bright colors she usually wears. “Donation?”

“They want to establish a memorial scholarship in Hal’s name. Should I send in the usual amount?”

He doesn’t even hesitate; analysis can occur later. “Yes, the usual amount, Carol, thank you.”

“I’ll have it done this afternoon,” says Carol, and he manages to escape to his office, where he closes the door and tries to push the worries down.

He only has the first name, but it doesn’t take long to find Hal’s file in the computer system, along with his photograph and the upcoming tour schedule. The face looks different in the photograph, and he has to scroll through several before he is absolutely sure of the man’s identity. Already his memories of the man have melded into his own skin, the man’s voice into his own throat. He moves his fingers, flexing them as if he plays a violin, and wonders if he has taken on that talent as well as the rest, and what would happen if he were to pick up one of the instruments that line the walls of the office as decoration? Would he be able to play them with such skill and devotion that those listening would recognize his second skin?

No. He mustn’t try; even he knows it’s too dangerous, because then they would all want his secret, and that’s his alone to keep. 

He’s never had a name before. He’s not sure how well it fits. Already he can feel the second skin start to feel a bit too tight.

He opens a window. The fresh air fills his doubled lungs; tickles his doubled nostrils, brushes his doubled hair and he breathes in it, feeling himself relax. It is too close, this connection, but if he is careful, no one will know, and besides, he thinks that this euphoria will not last as long as it does. He’ll be more careful next time. 

But for now, it is all right. The world is beautiful, the world is fine, the world has welcomed him with open arms to be a part of it, and he is well, and well within it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is all there is. I do not intend to finish the main story, but you are welcome to read the two short stories within this universe (one of which is set after this story was meant to conclude). I've also included [a synopsis of where I had intended to go](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8809192), which has a bonus chapter of sorts that covers John's backstory. I hope it gives those who have loved this story the closure they may want or need.
> 
> Thank you for reading.


End file.
